I remember shortly before my grandfather passed away, he began focusing on his own mortality. He knew his time left on earth was short.
Consequently, this limited time remaining amongst the living became his only focus in every conversation we had. Death was all he thought about.
Death was all he talked about. It was as if he were being chased, and even though he knew he couldn’t last much longer, he kept running.
He was a stubborn son of a bitch—and a real downer at holiday gatherings.
“I don’t have much time left in this world, Finnegan,” he’d always say to me, with tired defeat in his eyes. “And let me tell you, dying is a pain in the ass.”
I hated hearing his doomsday soliloquies, and did my best to change the subject every time he brought it up. It was usually a futile effort that left me wishing I hadn’t quit smoking so many years ago.
I always felt like he was dwelling on the wrong things; that he should have been getting as much out of our time together as possible. All he could do, however, was point out the fact that this would probably be the last (insert any family oriented holiday rotating around ham or turkey here) we would spend together.
It was like breaking bread with the grim reaper.
But now, I guess I have to ask myself, am I afraid to die?
I did it once already.