..one more time, lets do it again..
why does there have to be death. i dont understand. i mean, i do understand thats its a part of life. but it seems to come in cycles. maybe. i dont know. its the middle of the month and there have been 4 deaths already. and people leaving, which is sort of like death in a sense, but not really, like...temporary death. first scott, then mrs. ebersbaker's baby, then monica, cory's mom, now my grandpa. i didnt understand how poorly he was doing. i thought this was something he could get through. he was such a strong man. i mean, he hasnt died yet, but we're just waiting. waiting for that dreadful call. he has chosen to die and now we are just waiting it out. i think the worst part is that i never got to say goodbye. that i will never see him again to give him a hug or talk to him or tell him i love him or anything. he wont be in heaven with me and jesus and monica and scott and mrs. ebersbaker's baby. that makes me so sad. i wish there was something i could do about it, but there isnt. all i can do is pray. pray that jesus will somehow touch his heart in these last few hours. i remember when i was six and i went to go visit him in arizona and he took me to this park and i thought it was the coolest park ever and i didnt want to leave so we stayed there all day. then we went to mcdonalds for dinner and he let me play there too. and then i asked if i could ride in the back of his truck (like in the bed) and he said yes, but he meant in the backseat. so i sat in the backseat of his rickety old pick-up truck on this fold-down chair that was so tiny that i, as a 6-year-old, could hardly fit on it. then we went home to his trailor and i slept in one of his big old shirts on the couch. and it smelled like stale smoke and old people. and i saw him get up to drink out of a bottle, but i didnt understand that then, i didnt understand that my grandpa was an alcoholic. and i remember him saying "well son of a gun" all the time and i would always get wide-eyed when he would say that. and i remember my mom calling and i quietly asked her if that was a bad word. she told me it wasnt, but that i shouldnt say it. and i remember another time he came all the way from arizona to come and watch me play in a soccer tournament when i was 10 or 11. and he drank out of that same old bottle. and i still didnt understand. i thought he would beat this, i did. but he didnt. i want to go see him. one last time. before he goes. never again. i wont see him ever again.