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My grandfather passed away last April from cancer that had spread from his colon to his liver. Although it is nearing a year since his death, I feel like I am still dealing with it because I didn't let myself be done with it. I will never forget receiving the news while I was at work. I had began to cry as I told my manager that I had to leave, I had to. I sat in my car in the parking lot for a good five minutes, crying and thinking that I knew I shouldn't have gone in to work that day. I knew I had to do my crying before seeing my family because I wanted to be strong for them, especially for my mother and my grandmother. I remember so vividly pulling up to my grandmother's house and seeing my brother standing outside with his eyes red and puffy. We didn't say anything as we hugged. After all, there was really nothing to say.

I sat silently at my grandfather's bedside, tears rolling down as I watched my grandmother break down repeatedly every time the reality of the moment hit her. I couldn't imagine the kind of heartache she was feeling. I thought about how two days before, he had his last good day. Although already weak, gaunt, and resting in a wheelchair, he managed to get out some laughs and smiles, and even a little wiggling to dance. I was able to take some comfort in that thought that he had one good last time with his family around.

I stayed crying quietly as the coroner wheeled his body out of the house to take to the funeral home. I stood by my mother's side as she cried into my father's chest. It was all so surreal. As I drove home by myself, I did my best not to cry and tried to focus my concern on my mother and grandmother.

It was at the funeral after everything was said and done, and my grandmother was presented with the American flag that I could not hold it in anymore. It was when my mother asked me if I wanted to leave a kiss print on his coffin, as my aunt and cousins were doing, that I just couldn't take it any longer. No more would I hear him walk in to the house and call me angel. No more would I hear him tell me stories about when I was younger and would ask him for hard candy when he'd get home from work. Gone were the days when his cologne would linger on my clothes after a hug.

I did not want my parents, nor my grandmother to worry about me, so I continued to try keeping my sorrow in. Even today when I think of him, I try to hide my watery eyes. I feel as though I'm not done dealing with his death. I was and am so concerned with making sure my mother and grandmother would be ok, that I did not let myself mourn. So in some way, writing about his death helps me to cope with it. He always called me his angel, and the way I see it now is that he is my angel.

Learn more about this author, Cristy Valley.
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