Even great men die
My papaw died two weeks ago today.
It’s probably impolite to say that he died instead of he passed away, but I’m afraid if I’m not direct with myself, I won’t accept that he’s gone. He’s not kind of gone or even somewhere else, he’s dead and gone. And frankly it’s been killing me.
There might be comfort if I had a belief in some sort of afterlife, but the truth of the matter is no one knows. Many believe in different scenarios, but I haven’t for a long time. I try to accept death as one of those mysteries in life. I want to assume this life is all there is because I want to live it. I don’t want to procrastinate things I want to do or say because somehow after my death, I’ll get another chance. I don’t want to take that risk.
Instead I take comfort that I told him how much he means to me, and how much he improved my life just by loving and accepting me as I am. By stepping in and being my father when I needed one. He touched many other lives too. What greater legacy could a human being leave behind?
I take comfort that he died at home with family. He was in minimal pain and he still had his dignity. He had enough warning of what was coming so he could tell his loved ones that he loved them and hear that they loved him back. He had time to prepare my granney for life without him. He didn’t die in a nursing home or hospital as he always feared.
Please don’t forget to hug the ones you love.
PS My grandparents before they were married. Aren’t they beautiful?
