He was my hero. And I was convinced he was immortal.
That morning I went to his room and sat with him while he prepared for his breakfast of milk and porridge. He stared into the distance while he ate, slowly. A sudden cough broke the silence and as I leaned forward to help, it felt like something in the room had changed. I looked closer at him and I felt my stomach churn. I couldn’t breathe. My grandfather had turned snow white.
He was gone.
For 14-year old me, the lesson was learnt in profound grief – even heroes fall sometimes.