It's the anniversary of my grandfather's death. I guess technically speaking, it's tomorrow. I always think it's on the 27th.
It was so weird because that night, the night of the 27th, I had had a burning desire to read Tennyson's "Crossing the Bar," and I had read it over and over and cried and cried without knowing exactly why. The next morning, I woke up to a phone call from my dad, and I knew the news before he said it. It's things like reading "Crossing the Bar" while my grandpa was passing away without my knowing it that make me believe that there's a lot going on with our souls that we don't know or understand. I like to think he was talking to me. I like to think he knew that he was going to go and that he wanted me to know that it was ok, that he was ok, and that I was going to be ok. And I try not to cry too much, though sometimes a person can't help it, because he was very sick and I wouldn't wish that on anyone, and I know he was ready. So, I don't really feel like I can cry too much for too long.
Crossing the Bar
By Tennyson
Sunset and evening star
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;
For though from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar.