Late at night, he went into the kitchen to fix us chicken salad sandwiches, then read us devotions and prayed, so we could eat. I let my teeth sink into the first sandwich, and, in a few seconds, my whole plateful was finished. Boy, he could cook. After dinner, we went upstairs for bed. I slept in his small study. The tiny couch-like bed sat in one corner of the room and was a perfect fit for me. The other side of the room was Grandpa’s bookshelf. It rose high to the ceiling and was filled with old, worn out books. He came in to check on me, pulled out a dusty book from its shelf, and read me to sleep. In the middle of the night, if I ever got scared, I would run into his room and sleep on the floor at the foot of the bed. Something about him just made me feel safe. I slept deep and dreamt all that night.

Grandpa and Grandma got up early the next day to fix breakfast. As I walked downstairs, I could smell something delicious. I stepped into the kitchen, and on the table sat a stack of golden-brown pancakes. It was almost as tall as I was. Since I was the first one down, I dug in with no regard. After I had my fill, I laid back down and fell asleep. My family and I had to leave later on in the week, but I never forgot that first time I visited my Grandpa’s house. I told my parents we should visit him as often as we could, so, that Thanksgiving and Christmas, we made sure we went down there again just to hear him play the piano and listen to his stories one more time.

One night, when we were all back home, we got a call from my Grandma. Something really bad had happened, but I didn’t know what.  The whole family packed its bags and drove down to Grandpa’s house. We didn’t see him anywhere when we got there, only my Grandma. She looked like she was sick. But everything around the house was exactly the same as he had left it, so I didn’t understand. The next day we woke up early in the morning, dressed in nice clothing, and headed out.

It was a bad day. There was a pungent smell in the air–like sweaty palms and tight, starchy clothes. The world was stiff; there was no motion in the atmosphere and no life in anyone’s expressions. So I asked them, “Where are we going?”

 “To a farewell party,” they answered, but their faces were stern and solemn.           

“But I don’t want to go,” I said to my dad.

“…None of us do.”

The words were spoken with finality–as if we could never turn back, and even when we so desperately tried, the clock just kept on ticking forward. The only thing we could do was move on…trudge on…pray on. So we did. Our caravan forced its way down the graveled street on that gray Sunday morning. The sun was rising and the air was getting warmer, but our hearts were getting colder. The graveyard lay straight ahead of us, the large, black hearse, behind us. He was never coming back. He couldn’t come back. And step-by-step, and day-by-day, we were all slowly creeping toward that same fate. I only wish I could have realized it then.