Where Grandpa Went to Grieve
When Grandma died, everything felt heavy and silent. At her funeral, everyone cried, but Grandpa “didn’t say a word.” He stood by her casket, holding her favorite photo, like speaking might break him.
Days later, Grandpa disappeared. After searching, we found him at an old cabin he’d built. Calm but distant, he said, “I just needed stillness. The world’s too loud when you’re trying to remember someone’s voice.” Inside, the cabin was simple, with one chair left empty. He told me, “Fifty years with her… she was the melody to my silence. And now I don’t know what to listen for.”
We stayed, sharing meals and stories. Then I found a letter Grandma wrote “for a time when you feel far away.” Reading it aloud, Grandpa whispered, “Maybe I can let go now.” He returned home steadier, learning that “peace isn’t the absence of pain, but the courage to sit with it.”
