On November 4th, 2009, 5pm Illinois time, Grandpa passed away. He gave 'em hell. Death is a natural part of life and I've come to terms with it's silent comings and goings in our lives. To paraphrase Jud Crandall: eventually death is going to come into the house and say howdy, sometimes it'll stay for supper, and sometimes it bites you in the ass. What happens when we die? It's a question every child has when their first pet gets hit by a car at the side of the road (if they're lucky). It's a questions I asked when my mom passed. It's a question I still ask; don't we all? My head says nothing - you die. Your body rots and the magical part that made you walk and talk ceases to be. My heart hopes that somehow, despite rationality, we find a way to go home. Not to heaven, not to hell, just home. But oblivion doesn't sound too bad, does it?
Ask me again - what happens when we die?
Our friends and family keep on living. If you're one of those lucky friends or family of the deceased, then you've got a tough job to do. Live. Grandpa died, but I get to live. I get to live with the memories of that tough old bastard. Memories of him swearing at traffic, refusing to give in to that damned cancer, taking me to the fair, and being the stoic Italian man who never ate grits. He loved coffee, whiskey on the rocks (always on the rocks), harley davidson, and supposedly he even liked cats. He loved his cars, his family, and my Granny (always my Granny). Maybe we do get to go home. Maybe there's nothing. But for now, I give my nod to death and accept him as he walks through my house. May he be content with what he finds and not tarry for more.
We, the living, have a job to do.
Give 'em hell.