“You know your grandfather is dead, right?”
That’s how she told me that my grandfather, the one who hung the moon in my world, had died. It was March 7, 1988. I was eight years old. A ball of flames had swallowed my grandfather up when his P51 Mustang “Dolly” crashed in the mountains.
“I know.” I said, but I didn’t really know. I knew he had been missing and my grandmother had been crying, but he was fine. He wasn’t in a thousand pieces on some mountain where he stayed undiscovered for days.
Read the rest at (in)courage.