Grandpa always said he didn’t want a big goodbye.
“Just a simple day, a sandwich, a folding chair, and a quiet lake,” he’d tell me. “No need for all the fuss.” But we knew. We all knew that this wasn’t just another quiet day. Grandpa had surgery scheduled for Monday morning. They said it was routine, but when a man his age talks about not “bouncing back,” it carries a different weight.
So, I packed the car with snacks, chairs, and two containers of the greasy diner food he loved. My cousin joined us with extra blankets in case the wind picked up. There we were—three generations gathered by the lake, the water gently lapping against the dock, the air filled with the fresh scent of grass and the coolness of morning. Grandpa had been coming here for years, and it was clear this tradition meant a lot to him.
He settled into his chair, fishing pole in hand, eyes on the water. There was a calmness about him, something that made the world feel still for a moment. He didn’t seem frail; he seemed like Grandpa—the man who taught me to fish, to tie knots, and sneak cookies when Grandma wasn’t looking.
We sat together, mostly quiet. Sometimes, silence says more than words. But eventually, Grandpa spoke, breaking the stillness with one of his favorite lines.
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