I remember the first tears I cried when I heard the words " grandpa died". Hot, scorching tears the burned my eyes as they fell rapidly off my rosy red cheeks. They were unstoppable, all I could do was cry helpless into my grandma's frail body which once seemed so strong. So many things I wish I wish I had said and so many things I wish I had done. But there is no more second chances. Death is death. And there is certainly no way out either. But I didn't want to believe it. He couldn't have died. Just yesterday, he seemed so alive, within his ditiriating health and his sickness controlling him, he was still alive. He never gave up hope, even to the day he died. I felt hopeless. I had no one to lean to. 1
My mother never really like my grandfather and for all she cared, he was an awful, rude and racist man. My father loved him for being his father, but hated him for the abuse he had inflicted on his family for what seemed to be a long a dwelling childhood. For all he cared, he was glad that evil bastard was gone. Then their was me, I loved him more then I knew. So as you see, I could never thrust any one of my parents with my feelings of pain and hurt. But the worst part was that my parents didn’t tell me that he died till after school. By then, my grandfather was off to be cremated. I had to chance to say goodbye. No chance to hug his teddy bear like body or stare into his beautiful blue eyes that always seemed to make everything thing ok I just sat there happily in school while the rest of my family grieved over his death.
Author notes
not finshed typing their is still wayy more to the story
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