My grandfather was the happiest guy I’ve ever known. He smiled when he told stories and laughed a lot. Maybe it was because he was a World War 2 Veteran. I figured that after he survived the war and came home, nothing seemed as serious as facing death at age 18. Grampa sang the national anthem all the time which was kind of his signature move and he always flew a flag on the side of his house. He was a resilient, proud man who never stopped living a full life. That is, until grandma died. They had met in December 1945 and were inseparable for 67 years. Dad and mom brought grampa into our home the very next day. Grampa was with us for five years, and we saw him every day. My family and I took good care of him until the day he died. He was 93.

When my grandfather moved in with us, he did okay for awhile, but then he began to fade. My job was the bedtime routine for grampa which included helping him up from the couch, make sure he would brush his teeth, then turning down the covers so he could get into bed. At first, it seemed like a chore and I grumbled, but gradually I realized that caring for grampa was a labor of love. I remember one night when he told me the same war story three times in a row. I did not interrupt and I just sat there next to him and truly that was all that mattered. He’d hug me and say “Thank you.” He’s been gone two years and I still miss those few minutes with him every night. I wish I could help grampa to bed every night for the rest of my life.