Just a Lake, a Sandwich, and a Goodbye
Grandpa didn’t want a big goodbye. “Just a sandwich, a folding chair, and a quiet lake,” he said before his scheduled surgery. So we honored that—gathering at his favorite lake, eating greasy diner food, and sitting in peaceful silence.
He looked like himself—strong, calm, reflective. We fished, laughed, and shared stories. Then, as the sun set, he turned to me and said, “I just want you to remember this moment. This is what matters.” That hit hard. Not just because of what he said, but because we all felt the weight of what might come next.
The next morning, the hospital called. A complication. I rushed there, fearing the worst. But when I walked into his room, he smiled and said, “Guess I’m sticking around a bit longer.”
Grandpa recovered, but something shifted. In him. In me. We both stopped taking time for granted. Years later, I still take my kids to that lake—not just to fish, but to be present.
Because the quiet moments, the simple ones—those are the ones that matter most.
