The day I saw my grandpa cry.
There’s not much in life that I regret. In fact, I would state that I have very little regret. Every action and every word has led me to where I am today. And today, I am a very blessed girl.
But one thing in life that I would honestly change if I could go back in time, occurred nine months prior to my grandpa’s passing, at my great-uncle’s funeral. You see, my great-uncle and grandpa were wonderful friends. My uncle died from a sudden heart attack. Here one day and gone the next. On March 4, 2002 a little after 10:30 in the morning, I sat in a pew at St. Andrew’s Church in Sloan, New York. My grandpa to my left and my great-uncle in a casket in front of the altar. I was six days shy of twelve years old. I looked over to my grandpa who had his hands folded neatly in his lap and with his head hung low.
He was crying.
In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to hug him. Or the very least to reach over and grab his hand. But I did neither.
His grief paralyzed me. This was a man who never cried, who hardly ever raised his voice when I was with him. And he sat there with his head hung low mourning the loss of his friend.
And I did nothing.
Nine months later, on November 27, 2002, a little after 10:00 in the morning, I sat in a pew at St. Andrew’s Church in Sloan, New York. This time, my grandpa was in a casket in front of the altar. I folded my hands in my lap and hung my head low.