My grandpa Hank. He wasn't my grandpa, he was a close friend of my family most of my mother's life. He was probably the most stable force in our life, and he was skitzophrenic.

He was a good man. Patient enough to put up with my grandmother. Generous enough to repeatedly help my mother. Kind enough to entertain me while my mother and grandmother went and did whatever. He always took me to lunch at least once when we would visit my grandma (he always lived within 30 minutes of drive time from my grandmother), and if possible, he took us to church on Sunday when visiting grandma. He came to at least three of my birthdays and taught me and my friends to play blackjack. Of all my family, I knew he loved me… now he was gone. That was Hard, plus the reality that I wasn't going to be able to attend his funeral… I still haven't been by his grave…

But in a way it was a relief, I didn't have to worry about him asking when I was going to return, or come see him again.


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