When I was in 5th grade, my grandpa Folke, my dad's father, died. He died of skin cancer at 79 years old. I remember my grandmother sneaking me up to the hospital room once, because they did not allow children then. It's hard to explain, exactly: she hid me under her coat. I'm pretty sure that some people did see me.
But this is not about that.
When my grandpa Folke died, and even later when my grandma Judy died, I didn't really think about, as sad as I was, how much sadder my father must be, because these were his parents who had died.
When my neice was about three, I told her that my her dad was my brother, and that my uncle was grandma's brother, and that grandma was her dad's mother, and she threw her hands up in the air and said, "You mean everybody has a family?"
It seems like it takes our whole lives to figure that out.