My first moment of clarity came at my grandfather's funeral. My mom tells the story of how she wasn't sure if we should go to the actual funeral (I was just-9, my sister was almost 7, and my brother was 5), if we were old enough for this sort of thing. But Papa was a big part of our lives and she thought it was important for us to be there. I remember that it was very warm, and my mom was very upset. And then it hit me: I was never going to see him again. Ever. No more visits, no more pipe smell, he was gone. This is what death was. And I couldn't stop crying.
My mom told me years later that she saw how upset I was and really regretted bringing me to the funeral, but I reassured her that it was a good thing. That it was important I understood what was happening. That something important happens when someone dies. I remember looking at my sister and brother while I was crying and feeling much older than them.
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