Papaw

          He died right in front of me. Laying in that hospital bed, in the living room in his house, surrounded by his family, he took his last breath. Ever. I watched it happen. It was hard. I cried, we all cried. It hurt like hell. It seemed like he was already gone as he sat there in a coma for three days, three days that felt like an eternity. For three days he lay there, every breath could have been his last. Yet he fought. Fought against all odds. Fighting the fluid in his lungs, the heart failure, the lack of food or water for six days. He fought it all. He fought until July 4th, at 2:45 p.m. when he took his last breath with all of us watching, the last breath he'll ever take on this Earth.
          I thought I was ready. I was tired of seeing him fight, of seeing him suffer, of seeing his wife, my grandmother, suffer. My grandfather had been gone for weeks, months, hell he was probably gone for years. Because my grandfather was a hunter, he was a fisherman, he was a man who refused to be held back by anything. He would do as he damn well pleased, because he had earned it. His entire life was earned, nothing was given to him. Every bit of his life was carefully constructed, built nail by nail and board by board with his bare hands. He constructed a family, one that he was proud of and didn't miss any opportunity to brag about. He wasn't overly affectionate. He was a hard ass. He was tough to please. And if you didn't do something up to his standards you could bet that he would tell you. Things were done his way or they weren't done at all. Was he perfect? Not at all. But to my mother, he was Daddy. And to me, he was Papaw. And for us that was everything.
          But unfortunately that man had been gone for a while, and in his place there was a shell of his former self. A shell of a man, who was forced to stare at his pond, not more than a hundred yards away from his house, and long to cast out a line. Who stared a few hundred yards farther out that same window at the woods he used to hunt, longing to try his luck in his deer stand, trained eyes watching a pile of corn anxiously awaiting any sign of that prize buck.
          Bits and pieces of my Papaw still remained. He was still the keeper of the coveted fourwheeler key, the keeper of the candy, and he still loved to tell a good joke or a good story. And that's what was remarkable about him. Though his health was failing fast, his spirit shone just as bright as it did the day he let me drive his fourwheeler for the first time, constantly reminding me not to go too fast and to dodge all of the mudholes. It shone just as bright as the day he took me fishing, and taught me how to bait a hook and the best way to catch the big one. His spirit never waned, down to his very last moments of consciousness, when he returned home from the hospital with the grim prognosis that he wouldn't make it much longer. The hospital could do nothing for him, but still his spirit shone through in a bright smile when he said what may as well have been his last word. "Home."
          My grandmother is the only angel I've ever met. For 58 years she had been his wife, doting on his needs, taking care of a man who was not easy to please. My Papaw would sit in his recliner, and as his tea glass ran dry, he would rattle the ice. Without a word, my grandma would rise and head to the kitchen, bringing back the pitcher of tea and refilling it. Strange as it may seem to people in this generation, that's how their marriage was built, that was their life. And it worked. It worked for 58 years. And in the 58th year she promised him, that if the hospital couldn't do anything for him she would bring him home. To the home where they had lived and loved. And she did. And in the 58th year, she sat right beside his hospital bed, clutching his arm with the love of 58 years, as he took his last breath. More than three quarters of her life lay in that bed, and when he stopped breathing, more than three quarters of her life passed away.
          She broke down. We all did. It was a lot harder than I thought it would be. I thought I was ready. But I wasn't. No one ever is. I'm going to miss him. But he taught me a lot. And it wasn't just how to drive a fourwheeler or catch a fish. He taught me a lot about life. Through watching him, I learned life lessons that will remain with me forever. But most of all I learned how to be proud of what I've accomplished in life, to be proud of what my hard work had earned me. And as a man who built his life and his family year after year with the blood sweat and tears of hard works, that was the best lesson he could have ever taught me.
          And though he is gone, he still remains. In his wife, his children, his grandchildren and his great-grandchildren. We'll miss him dearly, but his memory will never die. Papaw lives forever with us.