It really is.

My grandfather died on Sunday, less than a week after I posted my last entry wondering if I would ever see him again.

It’s for the best, it really is, or so I keep telling myself, and so I mostly believe. He’d been weaker the last few weeks apparently, and was especially weak that morning. They were going to go for a drive, which was one of his favorite things to do in the beautiful Vermont countryside. My grandmother thought perhaps they shouldn’t because he was so tired, but he wanted to go, so they went. They helped him to the car. His last words were, “This is a beautiful day.” His head slumped forward when he got into his seat, and he was gone.

He died without pain, without lingering, on his way to do something he loved. He’d listened to classical music that morning, one of the few things he could still appreciate with such a disaster of a memory.

My grandmother no longer has to kill herself taking care of him and the house, nor does she have to make the agonizing decision to put him in a home, which would have crushed him.

My mother spent the last month of his life with him, going for drives, listening to music, sitting on the deck, being with him and my grandmother. She left, and the next day he left too.

His body is being cremated. The memorial service will be next Saturday in Vermont. My mother and sister and I will go out for it, to say goodbye to him and support my grandmother and the rest of the family and receive their support in return.

It’s for the best, it really is. And that helps it hurt less, I think, but it still hurts an awful lot.