book

My Grandpa Van

5 Pages 1235 Words May 2015

I was eight years and almost three months old. It was a chilly winter morning on December 2nd of 2005. Before I even opened my eyes, I knew the weather was so cold, I would be able to see my breath when I exhaled. The night before, I was thrilled knowing that my first art show was the next day and I had been preparing for it for almost an entire year! My mouth ached from smiling so much I knew that in 24-hours, the most important people in my life - my parents, my tio Bill, and my Grandpa Van - would all be at my art show to see the painting I had devoted so much time and so many paint strokes into.
The morning of the art show came around like the speed of light. Before I even opened my eyelids and wiped away the goop from the crevices of my coffee brown eyes, I was forced to rush and awaken completely by an abrupt shaking movement of my warm, cozy, soulmate - which I like to call my bed. I opened my eyes, as laborious as it was. Oh, and it was my mom shaking my bed - like always - no surprise. Or was it? I heard a sort of panic in my mom’s voice that gave me a rare, uncomfortable feeling that something wasn’t quite right. As my mom shook my bed, in a frantic voice that I could barely understand; she blurted the words through tears and worry, “Grandpa Van is dying!” I hurriedly thought to myself, how is this happening to the life of someone who spent hours in Toys “R” Us searching for everything on my birthday and Christmas lists. I couldn’t begin to fathom my life in his absence. I couldn’t get over this thought.
Every minute that passed on the way to the hospital seemed as if someone was holding the hand on my watch to keep it from tiking at normal speed. That car ride was a blur of misery that I couldn’t seem to escape quickly enough. We finally arrived to Sharp Memorial Hospital; parked and marched solemnly inside - knowing more sorrow was on the way. A few moments after my siblings, mom and I started speed-walki...

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