“Grandpa. Grandpa, wake up. Your dinner is ready.”
He laid down for a nap while I made him our traditional Wednesday night grilled ham and cheese. It was just another day. But he didn’t wake up when I called. He didn’t make the painstaking journey from his bedroom to the barstool in the kitchen. He didn’t eat the sandwich I made. No longer crippled by age, Grandpa ate in the presence of God. His journey was the ultimate one – from earth to heaven.
I stared blankly at the plate of grilled ham and cheese, arranged perfectly with his evening pills and a glass of his favorite Gatorade. He was supposed to be sitting there eating it, and I was supposed to be by him, eating my sandwich while perched on the seat of “The Cadillac” – his bright red walker. Police and undertakers milled through the house, and I…
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