The first time I met my maternal grandfather I was eleven years old, on a trip to visit the homes and places where my parents grew up and lived before moving to Canada. Sadly, it also turned out to be the only time I got to be with him as two months after our return home, he died from a brain aneurysm. While the news hit me hard, what I remember most from that fateful morning was the sounds of my mother’s mournful and inconsolable weeping, of a daughter crying out to her father who just mere weeks earlier had held her in his arms to say what turned out to be his last good-bye. Although that trip was the first and only time I ever got to be with my grandfather, as is the case with life, his passing was to be the first of many times where I’d be reminded of the inevitable truth that no one lives forever. Â Click to continue reading the rest of this entry
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