I've been thinking a lot about life lately. Sometimes we think of life as an unexhaustable well. Then something happens to remind us that this is not true. Today I'm remembering very vividly my first bitter taste of death. It was seven years ago when my grandfather left this world. I know it sounds silly, but I thought my grandpa would live forever. I thought he was too tough to die. When I think of him a quote that I once heard in a movie comes to mind. "There he goes. One of God's own prototypes. A high-powered mutant of some kind never even considered for mass production. Too weird to live, and too rare to die." My grandpa was definately one of a kind. This made a lot of people dislike him, but it's what I loved the most about him. He never seemed to exist in the present. He was always lumbering somewhere between the past and the future. He was a rebel at any cost. Sometimes it cost him a lot to be who he was. I always admired him for who he was. He was beautiful. To me, he was a snow-white haired enigma with sparkling blue eyes, who used to bounce me on his knee and pay me a quarter to style his hair. He had a deep belly laugh. When he laughed his whole body shook. He used to stand by the window and watch the world outside. He was content just watching the world. He would hold baby Cris with one arm and point to whatever caught his eye outside, whether it be a bird's nest full of newborn robins or big fluffy white clouds or Christmas lights. He told stories that enthralled me, but always ended sadly. He picked wild flowers and gave them to me. He had a sense of humor like no other and, boy, did that man love to eat! I used to dance around his chair, spining and spining and he would grin. When he died, a part of me died too. The day a lost him, a hole began to form in my soul. The expirience opened a Pandora's box of emotion and fear within me. Many things have entered in through that darkness. I miss him every day.