On March 12, 2010, my mom was driving my sister and I up to my dad’s parents’ house in Waterford, PA. This was a long, dreary trip for two teenagers who just wanted to hang out with their friends. I spent most of the travel jealous of my brother and father because they were at a Boy Scout event so they did not have to travel for hours. Don’t get me wrong, though; I loved my grandparents and their house. They had a beautiful farm house, which always had a homey scent and feel. There was a creek out back, a clubhouse for the grandkids, and lots of room to play. It was a child’s paradise, but in the middle of March, it was just a muddy mess.

A few months earlier, my mom had told me that my dad’s father, Pap-Pap, had decided to stop chemo treatments for his bladder cancer. He had been in and out of the hospital and had a few surgeries, but he always bounced back. All I knew about this trip was that my grandma kept saying, “He wants to see all of his kids again.” So that is why I accepted the mandatory travel to my grandparents’ house.

We arrived late in the night like most of our trips to Waterford. I walked into the house not knowing what to expect. I was ushered by my family into the dining room and there in the middle, instead of the beautiful table that held all our large family meals, was a hospital bed. On that bed was a man, my grandfather. He looked sicklier than ever. I grasped his hand, which wasn’t the same hand I held when I was younger. It wasn’t calloused and grease covered and warm from a solid day’s work. His hand was smooth, sweaty, clammy, and clean. Pap-Pap is not going to get any better; this is why Mom made me come.

I left the room awkwardly not sure what to say. I climbed the stairs, laid on the bed, and thought about my grandfather, who was always a hardworking man. Pap-Pap overexerted himself, was demanding and had a short temper, but he never batted an eye to ask for help or to assist someone. He was a tall man with thick gray hair and a receding hairline. Always wearing boots and jeans, he was frequently heard hollering, “Jan! Where are my socks?” He couldn’t cook unless it was scrapple and could detect the slightest bit of cinnamon in anything. Oh, how he disliked it.

The next morning I went to town with my Aunt Michelle and cousin Zowe. There was a new medicine ordered for Pap-Pap, so we went to the pharmacy to pick it up. Then we made a quick run to the grocery store. We were checking out when my aunt received a phone call. She handed her credit card to Zowe and stepped to the front of the store. I helped Zowe load groceries into the cart until Aunt Michelle came back.

Zowe asked, “Who was that?” My aunt didn’t say anything, so I ignored her pained expression and finished loading groceries. We finished paying, walked out to the car, and climbed in. Aunt Michelle turned to us and uttered, “That was Seth on the phone. It’s Pap-Pap. He’s gone.”

It could not be true! He was fine, not good, but okay. We just picked up his new medicine, and it was going to solve everything. Why? Why? Why?

During the long car ride home, Zowe and her mom were crying, but I couldn’t. Why couldn’t I? It scared me. Why wasn’t I sad? My grandfather, one of the most important men in my life, was dead.

We pulled into the driveway, left the groceries in the car, and ran inside. Everyone was huddling together in tears. I slipped past and peeked in the dining room. The hospital bed was flat, and my once strong, vibrant grandfather was now cold and lifeless. I burst into tears and ran up to my room.

About an hour later I ventured back downstairs. Everyone was on a phone, calling relatives and friends, making service and funeral arrangements, and ordering flowers and luncheon food. I did not know what to do. All I could think about was the medicine, could it have saved him? My mom took me in her arms and whispered to me, “Pap-Pap’s in a happier, healthier place now.” Her words flooded my heart with warmth. The first warmth I had felt on that bitter March weekend. I opened the door and wondered my way through the mud down to the creek. I looked to the sky, took a deep breath, and sighed. Maybe, just maybe, everything is going to be okay.

My grandfather was the most inspirational person I knew. I still see him every day in the hammer in my drawer, the leaves on the trees, the light in the sky, and through my mannerisms. Most of all I see him in my father, and I definitely know that he is in a happier, healthier place, working hard with his greasy, calloused hands.