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  • Today is September 10: the day Grandpa died. In two days it will be September 12, the day I was supposed to visit him in the hospital. Those are the days in September that rock my world, and between them a day that rocks the world around me.

    Maybe if I'd made it I wouldn't have known to say goodbye forever, but I would have said goodbye as I left his room, and then maybe I wouldn't have this rock in my gut, in my heart, in my throat, reminding me that I didn't go see him, didn't say goodbye, didn't hold his hand gently through the IV tubes or tell him one more time that I loved him. If I'm not careful, the memory of the things I didn't do will cast a shadow over the last memory I do have of him: Grandpa laying on a bench in the park after his birthday picnic, wearing shorts and bright white shoes like he always did, the bottom of his shirt untucked so his familiar round belly poked out in the fading sunlight of the last long summer days.
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