My grandfather is dying. The act of death is a grotesque action to witness. I feel sad, but not for the reasons one would expect. The worst part of death is the people it leaves behind. My grandmother doesn't know what to do without her best friend, someone she's known since she was fifteen. She faithfully sits next to his bed and watches every shaky breath, terrified that if she closes her eyes he'll disappear.
I pray that he dies soon. I don't like watching him or the shell that's left behind. I believe his spirit left a while ago. My grandmother told him he can leave when he wants too, but he's stubbornly hanging on. He was always a finicky man, even in his last days. When I was little, I would go over to their house. For dessert we had Klondikes. Grandpa would quietly eat his icecream, meticulously scaping at the wrapper. After he would fold the square wrapper into the tiniest scrap.
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