PO Box 1980

In April, my grandfather died. Unexpected as it was, the effects of his death went far deeper than the usual mourning associated with such a loss. This man, along with my grandmother, helped raise me. They lived with me until I was eleven years old. I am now twenty-one. I'd seen them only once in the past ten years. After they moved, I felt abandonment, as if the move was a direct attack on me.