I wrote this poem when I was eleven after my Grandfather died painlessly from a heart attack. My mother had gotten the call while we were all in the theaters watching a movie- Race to Witch Mountain- during the middle of spring break. She listened to the recorded message on the way home and my father had to tell us what happened. We spent a total of twenty four hours travelling in a car to attend a somber service and comfort my Grandmother on Easter Sunday. I am now much older and the pain has dulled; yet, this poem always gives me a hand when I feel the need to cry.
This is a chronical of the refurbished musings of an elementary schooler first discovering the meaning of death.
