My grandpa died last night while my family was opening presents. He was 87 years old.
Over the summer I had the chance to spend some time with him in the hospital and listen to his stories, fuzzy from the final stages of Alzheimer's, but peppered with moments of unearthed joy and precious bits of familial history.
I kissed his forehead, wept like a scared child, and told him I love him. I forced myself to look directly at his pronounced mortality and face this truth: At the end of everything, when the pile of money turns useless and our own bodies betray us, the love we carry around in them will not. We are still each other's. ❤