The Stupid Rules of Grammar

I believe in the stupid rules of grammar. Once in our lives, we learned the difference between was and is.

We sat in classrooms, hunched over desks, circling verbs with red pens, being told is means something happening now or in the near future, while was refers to something that already happened. Clean. Simple. Tidy. At least, that's what we thought. “Was” carries a weight the dictionary doesn’t warn you about. It’s a word that sneaks into your sentences quietly, gently replacing what is with what used to be. That’s when the word changes. It grows teeth. It begins to haunt your sentences. Suddenly, it feels like you’re outside of time, into a space where memory and grief hold hands. Was becomes a doorway, when you step through it, you're no longer in the present.

You're in the in-between—where echoes live, where smiles are frozen in time, and where you find yourself clinging to moments like they’re lifelines. Was isn’t a word anymore; it’s a reality you never asked for but have no choice but to live in. You say it without thinking—until one day you say it out loud and everything inside you stills. She was here. He was mine. We were happy. And suddenly, the past tense isn’t just grammar anymore—it’s grief with a name. It’s love, hollowed out by absence. It's a memory wrapped in mourning.

His name was Leo. My heart drops to the floor every time I remind myself of how he was.

It was July 28th, 12:38, when I saw my mom on the phone running out to my dad. Nothing prepared me for what happened next. My mom walks in on me and my brother playing. She stuttered, “Leo was in an accident, he’s in the hospital .” I asked, “Is he ok?” I remember my mom trying to look away as she said I don't know yet. I thought to myself we could make him a get well poster the next time we see him, I didn’t know. My parents dragged me and my brother up the stairs to their bedroom, I sat down in a corner and listened to my parents in tears explaining how I won’t see him again. I was only 9. I didn’t even know how to react, except hide in my arms in silence. In that moment the way he laughed and spoke all went away. It’s weird how you could see someone one day then only see them in your mind. I replayed in my head how we said our goodbyes after my birthday but if I knew in the short time of 2 days the most loving person I knew would say goodbye forever. Simple words like he was escape my lips yet these cursed words are etched into my brain like a tattoo—small, invisible reminders that language isn’t just for communication.

Sometimes, it’s for survival. No one teaches you how to speak in past tense when it’s someone you love that’s gone.

No one prepares you for the ache in your throat when you catch yourself correcting is to was. The word was, as I said before, is tattooed in my brain. Once it arrives it lingers. It lingers in your mouth, in your chest, in the spaces they used to fill. And yet we speak their stories, beliefs and names as if they’re memories trapped in a book.

The ache remains, but it becomes something else too: a reminder. A kind of proof that they mattered.

That they were, and because they were, you continue to love. Even though these people may forever be stuck in a pit of was, there is still a way to heal. Healing doesn’t come quickly, it doesn’t arrive with a big announcement.

Healing arrives carefully, it isn’t always easy to distinguish.

Healing could be as simple as waking up in the morning with a lighter weight on your chest. Laughing instead of crying at old memories. When you're dealing with loss you're not going to heal completely. You learn to live with the ache like it’s a second skin. Not something to fix or erase, but something to understand.

Because in the end, was doesn’t only mean they’re gone. It also means they lived. That they loved. That they were deeply, fully, beautifully here. Even though it is painful, I believe in the stupid rules of grammar.