It was very unlike how my grandmother, his wife, passed away. Very unlike the night that I suddenly woke up around 3 am. I knew it then. When I was around 12 or 13. The night was quiet then, and I was lying in my childhood room lit by my trust night light. Then I heard the phone ring in a distant room and a soft patter down the stairs. The garage below my room opened, and a car roared out.

I closed my eyes then, and when morning arose, my parents told me. What followed was dizzying days of relatives arriving, visiting a funeral home, and seeing adults cry and wail for the first time in front of me. My sister and I gave an odd, awkward speech. Optimistic, because we never were quite close to her. Some people called our speech very un-Christian because we talked about how our grandmother may be in another animal, another human, another life. But we sensed that no matter what, her long suffering of years from various ailments was finally at an end.

On the other hand, my grandfather fell into a downward spiral only in the last few months. In clear lucidity, he begged to move on. Perhaps frustrated that nearly everyone he knew except his children and their children were no longer alive. Yet in his last days, he told the chaplain that he wanted to live because his children wanted him to live. My family may seem simple, happy even…but deep inside, we harbor deep wounds and complexity despite all the lasting marriages and successful careers. So I wondered what he really meant. That he wanted to be a good person despite it all? To say that he lived for his children was the best thing to say? To say…most importantly, I am a good father.