Just the other day, I attended the funeral of my late grandfather. He had served through the second world war and ate thirteen bullets for his troubles. One of the bullets went through his head and several went through one his legs, crippling him and any athletic ambitions after the war. Despite that, he outlived all of the doctors who told him he would die after the way and clung stubbornly to life until the ripe old age of 89.
Leading up the funeral, I had done a lot of thinking. People say that once your parents die, you begin to come to grips with your own mortality. With the death of my last grandfather, I’ve started to come to grips with the mortality of my parents, of whom I’ve grown quite fond of in the last couple decades. With my increasing ability to understand the world around me and communicate the ideas from my head to people, I’ve developed a healthy rapport and mutual respect with my parents that I didn’t have even four years ago.
In his memory, I’ll dedicate this week’s posts to him.