I was only eight when he left. I remember being so confused the day he died. He had always been there for me, through the good times as well as the bad. I only remember bits and pieces of that day. Some parts seem to stay in my mind as clear as a movie, and others seem to be as blurry as an old photograph. Sometimes I think back to that day, and I only remember simple details such as what time of the year it was, but then at other times I seem to remember too much. This is how I remember the day my grandpa died:
It was a sunny day, which was surprising considering it was in the middle of fall, and all went well until later that day. I remember sitting on my bed, neatly made with a series of pillows placed perfectly on top of each other, when my parents walked in through the cracked door and called my sister, Sydney, into the room. She came running through the bathroom.
“Girls,” my father started to talk and paused before he continued, “there is something that your mother and I need to talk to you about.” Once again he paused, the second being longer than the first. I exchanged a glance with my sister who looked equally as confused as I was. It was a short glance, but looking back at that moment it felt like forever. After we broke eye-contact I looked back at my parents, it was now that I noticed my mother had been crying. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her face was bright red with streaks of tears dripping down her cheeks and off her chin onto a tissue she was clutching in her hand, with some tears falling down onto the floor.
“It’s about your grandpa,” my mother had begun, “he had a heart attack today,” she finished being cut off by any other outbreak of tears. Again, my sister and I exchanged a look, this time for longer.
“He died,” she blurted out, louder than she thought, she broke down again into another series of tears. I stared at her, my father, then at my sister. My father was holding back tears trying to look brave, and my sister didn’t move, frozen with fear, her open eyes began to get red and tears began to glide down her face. I didn’t notice it until now, but I was crying also. I pulled my sleeve over my hand and wiped my cheeks dry. My face became soaked once again in a matter of seconds.
I don’t remember much more of what happened after that, but I remember leaving the next day for Springfield, where my grandparents lived. There were a lot more tears that day. We had stayed at my grandma’s house for the rest of the week.
I remember going to his funeral and sitting in the front row staring at the coffin he was lying in, totally ignoring the speeches and just trying to figure out what my life would be like without him.
I remember the end of the service when everyone got up and kneeled next to him. His face was pale and his eyes were shut. He looked peaceful. His smile lines were clear and his hands were placed on top of each other on his stomach. I will never forget the last time I saw my grandpa. It was then that I realized my life would never be the same.