Another reason to hate February

Brooke’s grandfather died on Saturday morning. He was doing better, and they had planned to send him home today. The hospital bed was to be delivered Saturday afternoon, and Aunt K had arranged to take a month’s leave of absence from work. She works as a nurse, a hospice nurse, actually.

Some time on Friday, Grandpa took a turn for the worst. Brooke was recovering from a cold and had intended to see him this weekend, but we found out too late that it was too late.

Today, Brooke is at the family and community viewings. The rosary is tomorrow evening, and mass is at 10 on Wednesday morning. I want to say funny or poignant things about his life, but I don’t really have it in me to make them appropriate and amusing. All I know is that I listened to him. I’m told that he repeated stories, so no one else wanted to hang out with him while he was feeling talkative, but I hadn’t heard any of them before. He told me about his grandchildren and his work with the Boy Scouts. The only story that sticks out in my mind is the one I heard over Christmas.

When they were newly married, he and his wife were driving back to Pennsylvania from California, and they stopped in Las Vegas. On a whim, Grandpa did a little gambling—something he never did before and would never do again, he insisted—and won $8,000. When they arrived in PA, they bought their first home and had money leftover.

Brooke says this story is bunk. Her mom says it might be true but doesn’t sound quite right. Her dad also says it’s not true. I still believe it.

I don’t see the harm in believing it, and I miss him already.