I know how that second grader feels
I know how she felt when her hero left
I know how much she misses the man that would spin her in their favorite chair,
around and around and around.
I know that even though the chair is still there, the spinning isn't the same, because it just is no the right spinner.
My mother tried to re-create his cinnamon toast.
And so did my aunt.
My father even took a wack at it.
But it was never the same.
I miss that special toast.
My grandfather could somehow create magic on a slice of Wonderbread.
He could make a kilt look cool,
poetry seem fun,
and he rocked that feeding tube.
To sum it up, he was invincible.
Even when the cancer came back-
twice.
Even when his son ascended to the great unknown after death before himself.
Even when his granddaughter was diagnosed and couldn't walk.
Even when the pain from cancer was so clear in his eyes, you felt that you could touch it.
When my grandfather went to sleep and didn't wake up,
I tried to channel his strength.
And my little fourth grade body tried.
Oh, she tried until she couldn't breathe.
But that same pain she thought she could touch, came out and touched her.
And it knocked her off her feet.
That little fourth grade girl would spend nights trying to catch her breath, to get back up on her stable feet,
Even though what kept joy in her eyes and a smile on her face was suddenly gone.
But wounds always heal.
And whether it is the broken arm from the monkey bars,
the cut from playing with scissors, or watching someone you love have to leave you, that pain will teach you a lesson.
Don't go for the high bar next time.
Let mommy cut out your drawing.
And don't give up hope, because death can make or break you.
If a fourth grader can make it through,
anyone can.