Death is a strange thing. It’s been said before but I think there is a certain degree of validity behind the statement. 

My grandfather passed away early this morning sitting in his living room waiting for a cup of coffee. He was a man of routine. A man who liked what he liked and didn’t really bother with anything else. He had that old, dark sense of humor similar to that of George Carlin (a favorite of his) and all in all, he was my grandpa and I couldn’t have asked for a better one. 

We all think we have problems with separation and distance in our teenage years. We cry and we complain about the woes of being bound by our parents, faulty relationships and the feeling of abandonment. I guess in a way, I’m writing this because I feel guilty. I feel guilty that I ever dared open my mouth and whine about my relationship issues and the problems that ensued a bad breakup. No amount of pain I’ve ever felt could ever match up to what my grandmother is currently suffering through. A love that has existed since the 1950s has all of a sudden shattered into nothingness. A relationship that lead to three children and five grandchildren suddenly broke in half as quickly as his last heartbeat. 

The thought of my grandmother going to bed tonight without him by her side for the first time in over 50 years is killing me. The unfairness of it all is overwhelming. 

My grandparents sacrificed a huge portion of their already small income to go towards paying for my father and his siblings to get the best possible education they could. Next week, the result of their sacrifice is coming together to rejoice the memory of a man whose main goal in life was to ensure the success and happiness of the ones he loved. A good man with a good heart was lost today but his legacy lives on. 

Death is a strange thing but, then again, so is love.