I could tell from her voice that something was wrong.

Moments later I knew it was the phone call I’d been expecting for eighteen years.

“Grandad’s gone.”

Just because you’ve been expecting something for eighteen years, doesn’t mean you’re ready for it.

I tried to write a summary of his life. I tried to write about how I feel. But none of it is enough. How do you break down 96 years? Service to his country, his town, his family? I know he wouldn’t want us to cry, but I can’t help it. I know he’s at peace, and I’ll gladly bear this pain to know that he doesn’t have any pain any more.

Most people who know both of us would say I get my stubborn and my argumentative streak from him (but his arguments were always more refined than mine). The biggest lesson I choose to take from him, apart from never giving up, is the delight that was always evident on his face when a family member would walk in the house, despite our being spread around the world.

I was lucky to have forty years with him, and it was nowhere near enough. I miss you so much already.

“‘ere I sit, broken’earted,”

Happy Birthday Grandad.