When we arrive at the cemetery, I walk out into the rain. I don't care that my dress is soaking. I don't care that there is makeup running down my face. I sit down and cry my heart out. It has been five days since the accident. Nothing has felt real since. I dropped what I was doing, including my classes and rushed back to Missouri when I got the call, but it was too late.He died thirteen hours after the crash.  I missed the chance to say good bye.
The funeral service was nice. So was the burial. I say good bye to everyone, telling them I have to leave. I wish I could stay, but I have already missed three days of classes, and I could not miss anymore.
I walk to my car, thinking about Grandpa. I remember my third birthday when he bought me a pet cow. Mom was so mad. But I kept that cow until I turned sixteen, but then it ate my favorite shoes. So we sold it to a farm down the road. I think about my ninth birthday, when Grandpa bought me my first fancy art kit. It came with forty three different watercolor paints and twenty seven sheets of watercolor paper, each four by six feet long. Grandpa loved to paint and was amazing at it too. He passed that talent down to me, because I am now on a full college scholarship to Illinois Art Institute. I remember my first boyfriend, and how he took him fishing and scared him off somehow, because I never saw him again. I never found out what Grandpa said to him, but it must have been something awful.
A smile spreads over my face. Grandpa was special in a way that he would either comfort you in a way no one else could, or terrify you, saying the same exact thing. It depends on how you knew him.

I drive back to my dorm, and walk in to see my roommates sitting on the floor eating pizza. When they see me walk in, the mood changes. They rush up to see how I am, knowing how close I was with Grandpa. I assure them that I am okay. That Grandpa is in a better place now. But I don't even believe that. I crumple and sob on their shoulders for hours before drifting to sleep on the couch.
The next morning, I get dressed and head to class, and act like nothing happened. I know Grandpa would kill me if I did the thing I wanted to do most. Skip class and mourne all day. So, I continued on with my day.

I do this for another 358 days. Everyday I want to cry and skip class. But I don't. I keep pushing through.

I wake up one morning, and everything feels different. I realise it has been a year. Grandpa died a year ago. I cry for a little, then call my mom. Today is Saturday, so I have the day off. I talk to my mom for hours, then hang up and cry some more. Before I know it, I am out of bed and looking through old photo albums.
I see all the pictures of me and Grandpa. I smile, remembering things I had forgotten all about. I remembered how he always had a handkerchief in his pocket, and that he smelled like cinnamon rolls constantly, even though he never admitted to eating them everyday. I flip the page and my eyes land on one of his paintings. It is beautiful. It was a watercolor sunset. I could recognize this painting anywhere. It was hanging up in my bedroom back home, at the house I grew up in. I smile. I see the colors splashed all over the page, their colors fitting perfectly together. I look through the books all day. Soon, it is dinner time. I put some soup in the microwave, then eat it. I notice the sun is setting, so I go sit on the porch to see it.
As I walk out the door, my jaw drops. The sunset is painted exactly the way the painting looks. They are almost identical.
A warm feeling fills my stomach and I feel my Grandfather's presence beside me. I remember his words in my mind. Something he told me when I was eleven, which I had forgotten about until now.
“When an artist dies, their spirit goes to heaven, and on the anniversary night of their death, they are allowed to paint the sky. That is why sun sets look so beautiful always. Because it is a deceased artist painting them to remind their families that they love them.”
A tear drips down my eye. But this time, it is a tear of joy. My grandpa is gone, but in a way, he never left.