by Mary Bubbins

Created on: June 26, 2008   Last Updated: October 31, 2008

It was July 4, 1997. My grandfather was dying of prostate and stomach cancer. Upon receiving his diagnosis, he had been given six months to live, but within only two weeks, the cancer had stolen nearly every bit of life out of him. It hadn't taken his spirit and his love for our country.

"Poppy" was the sweetest man I have ever been blessed to have in my life. He was a large man, standing well over six feet, five inches tall. Many who were not lucky enough to know him personally were intimidated by his presence. His stature was no match for the size of his heart and all of the gentleness it held.

He was a kind man who loved each and every one of us with a ferocity that I have yet to experience with another human being. Aside from his family and his cat, Tommy, his passion was golf. He was a member of the hole-in-one club. When he wasn't golfing, he spent his time working out in his shed or catering to the needs of my grandmother, which sometimes was no easy task. He loved her and he would have traveled to the ends of the earth for her. He loved to see her smile.

I always called him my gentle giant. To see him brought to his knees because of an incurable disease made my heart ache. It left me praying to God, asking Him for a miracle - just one more day to love Poppy, to see him smile at me. Little did I know that my request would be granted on Independence Day.

Physically, my grandfather was weakened to the point of constant bed rest. He had chosen to spend the remainder of his time at home rather than in the hospital. My father, my aunt and myself all took turns sitting by his side - in case there was something he needed or wanted. Although his moments of lucidity were rare, due to a combination of the disease and the medications being used to control the pain, he woke for a moment on the Fourth of July. I was holding his hand. He looked over at me with eyes filled with confusion as he asked me what day it was.

"It's the Fourth of July, Poppy," I answered.

For the first time in an eternity, he smiled the smile that had always melted my heart. You see, my grandfather was a veteran of World War II. He had almost died in battle trying to save another man in his unit. He was awarded a medal for his act of bravery and, though proud of his medal, he was prouder of his country. It was for this reason that Independence Day had always held a special place in his heart.

"Fireworks," he said, out of the blue, as he squeezed my hand gently. "I want to see the fireworks."

Tears

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