From my window I studied the leaves that blanketed the lawns of the neighborhood. Suddenly, I heard a soft knocking on my door. As my dad made his way through the maze of comic books and clothes on the floor, he asked if he could have a word with me. I could tell something was wrong by the tone of his voice. While tears rolled gently down his cheeks, he sat down beside me on my bunkbed and told me that his mother had died from cancer in her sleep. That was the first time I had ever seen him cry. In a way, it was somewhat disturbing. Then I felt the droplets running down my face too.

I wished I had been there just to say one last good-bye. I remembered the good times I shared with my grandmother, like picking vegetables from her garden and Nana built a tree swing for me that hung from a giant oak behind her house one fall afternoon.

Those pleasant thoughts helped me block out some of the pain, but I still felt a gaping hole in my heart. That night, I went to bed early and spent a long time talking with God. I felt like something inside of me was missing. It was like a dried up well that would never hold water again. Near the end, I thanked God for letting Nana touch my life and I asked him to ease my father's pain. I noticed that my relationship with my father had grown during this time. n