My grandma died last week. She was sixty-nine years young. I did not know her very well but when I think back I see her face throughout my childhood, a calm and quiet woman. She never scolded us grandkids, but she also never showed us any affection. I don’t think she knew how to. I suppose in her own way she loved everyone, but showed it in a different way. I was not that sad when I heard the news; it was pretty expected. I am mostly hurting for my mother. She went through a lot the last month of grandmas life. She was away from her kids and her husband in a different country, dealing with the dysfunction of taking care of a dying person with cancer. When I think of how she must have felt and still feels it kills me inside. Then it makes me fast forward life to the time I will be the one saying goodbye to my mother, knowing I will never see her smiling face or hear her voice again. Life is so fragile. This experience has helped me to grow up more and understand how much we take people’s lives for granted, expecting them to always be around. It taught me to see that we all need to live like we’re dying.