Thankful Every Day

They were perhaps the saddest days I've known. Far away from every home I'd ever had, my grandfather lay dying on a bed in the back room of the house where he spent the last months of his life.

He was a hard working man. He worked with his hands. He worked with his head. He worked with his legs. He worked with his heart. And in the end, he returned to his hometown and to the land that he loved to work a few of the dreams that he always kept with him: a cabin in the woods, a pond among the cattail reeds, a shaded rut road running beneath the towering oak and maple trees.

But now it was over. While we sat in the room that night reading poetry and singing songs, he died. With my grandmother's hand in his as she kissed him goodbye, he died. And now this man, this pillar, this point of reference for everything I valued was gone.

Those were perhaps the saddest days I've ever known. My grandfather was gone; my grandmother was descending into dementia certain now to accelerate; my mother and her sisters were saddened beyond belief. Yet as I started my car to leave, as I backed out of the driveway, as the 15 hour drive home loomed before me, I rolled down the window, turned on the radio, and began to sing.

With this great void of grief yawning before me, I began to sing. And it was because of him, I know, that at such a time I should set aside my grief and sing.

He gave so much.
He left so much behind.
I am thankful for him every day.

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