Going home is always the fourth or fifth phrase you hear when you're burying your Grandfather in the Christian Religion.That's what everyone said to me, the eleven year old little girl wearing a pink and green butterfly dress at the funeral of her only male role model.

My Grandfather was a veteran, he served in the war and died at 93. He had alzheimer's and a mean streak. I got that from him. I don't remember him healthy, but my mom said he loved me more than he loved his own life. His death had never really hit me hard, but on those summer days when I eat banana pudding , I am reminded of him and his essence.

I never understood the depth of death, and I never knew why everyone, was crying and I couldn't shed one tear. My mom had said that we cry for loss and regretting the way we treated the dead. I should've been bawling, because I regret not loving him more.