By Jessika Vandivier
The day my grandpa died I laughed. It was getting close to my eighth birthday. I had been at the babysitter’s all day when my dad called and said he was running late. When he finally came to pick me up, he wasn’t himself. On a normal day he would stay and talk football with my sitter’s husband, but all he said was thank you and we left. He didn’t say anything in the car. I, on the other hand, couldn’t stop blabbing about how good my day was. He sat there in silence. From that moment on, all of the memories of that night remain in my head; no detail is lost.
Instead of going home, we went to my grandma’s house. I was excited because I got to see my grandpa. I ran in the house and found all of my grandparent’s friends sitting in the living room. They all looked over at me with sad expressions on their faces. I didn’t think anything of it. I ran past them and went looking for my grandpa. I was calling out his name while searching the house. My efforts failed, but instead I succeeded in making my grandmother cry. Before that moment, I had never seen her show any emotion but happiness. At this moment, for some twisted reason, I began to laugh.