We sat silently in the family Kia, smothered by stifling sadness. The familiar drive down the 219 towards the Boston Hills and Rockwood Road would never be the same after today. My father, mother and I arrived at my grandparents’ home just before dusk and night was imminent.

Rounding the corner into my grandparents’ living room, my grandpa stood relieved to hug me. Picture this: me, holding up my grandpa. From over top his slumped shoulder I could see daylight fading through the centerpiece window. I doled out strong but quick hugs to Aunt Tammy and Uncle J, but night was approaching swiftly, and I wanted to talk to my grandma. I slowly walked over. She was lying in her bed off to the corner of the living room, quiet, pale, and barely moving. I tried to remind her of the good times we shared, like when she told me not to stick my tongue out at her. I never listened, so one day I stuck my tongue out at her and she grabbed it. “Next time,” I remember her saying, “I’ll cut it off and put it in my tongue garden!” Grandma didn’t respond with words this time but instead with her eyes: “I love you. I’m going to miss you.”

“I love you too, Grandma.” And just after that her eyes shut. Less than two feet away, my grandma passed away right in front of me. She was gone, and so was her pain. The darkness had set in along with the tears, but we had to believe she was in a better place—a place without suffering. Rockwood Road has never been the same.