Grief is a sneaky villain.

It taps you on the shoulder when you least expect it—while you’re driving, standing in the grocery store or going about a day that, moments earlier, felt perfectly ordinary. One memory rises to the surface and suddenly, there it is: the ache you thought you had tucked away somewhere safe.

Within the space of two weeks, I lost my grandfather and a friend I once worked with at the Oakdale Leader.

My grandfather lived an incredible 92 years. He was a good man—kind, gentle and funny. He loved the simple things: a good dad joke, time with family and sitting in his yard watching the traffic while listening to the police scanner. He always had something to say about the weather and never turned down a request for a photo. Whenever a camera appeared, he beamed.

More than anything, he was a calm, steady presence during a childhood that was often anything but. For a little girl who frequently felt afraid, he was the calm in the storm. There was comfort simply in knowing he was there.

I will carry that feeling—and his wisdom—with me always.

My friend was a very different kind of force. She epitomized the strong, independent woman: bold, fearless and a fierce mother to her two children. She fought a long battle with breast cancer with the same strength she seemed to bring to everything else.

We began as coworkers who didn’t particularly get along. Somehow, over time, that friction evolved into a friendship that was both fierce and complicated. She gave blunt advice without apology and had an uncanny ability to know exactly when I needed to hear it—even when I didn’t want to.

I will miss that about her.

I don’t think I’ve cried all the tears stored inside me for either of them. Grief doesn’t follow a schedule, and it doesn’t arrive neatly packaged when we’re prepared to deal with it. Sometimes it waits until life grows quiet. Sometimes it catches us laughing at an old joke or reaching for the phone to tell someone something before remembering we can’t.

I know I haven’t reached the bottom of this well. There are still tears waiting for their moment.

But grief is not the only thing they left behind.

There are also stories, laughter, hard-earned wisdom and memories of feeling safe, understood or lovingly told exactly what I needed to hear. Sometimes remembering the good times is the only way to ease the heartache.

So, for now, I will let myself smile.

Not because I don’t miss them, but because I was blessed to know them.

Kim Van Meter is a former full-time reporter for The Oakdale Leader, The Escalon Times and The Riverbank News; she continues to provide a monthly column. She can be reached at kvanmeter@oakdaleleader.com.