I was a pallbearer Friday, but I also was not. My grandpa died last week, and instead of being at the funeral in Wichita, Kan., I was in Champaign, Ill. on a freelance assignment.

This is a very personal subject to shove into the great emptiness of the Internet, but I’m driven to do it anyway. My first draft was heartfelt and very good. It evaporated from my hands after I forgot to save. This final text is stilted and clunky, but I’m not writing to garner sympathy or to impress. I write to pay my respects.

He was 87 years old. It wasn’t a dramatic exit; he’s been constantly in and out of hospitals and care facilities for the past 6 months. My immediate and extended families have carried the burden by keeping vigil with him in shifts. The role of parental caretaker, even if split between siblings, is brutal. I wrote about it in January.

So when it was time for him to go, I imagine a great exhale released into the air. We will miss him much – very much – but he ended his time on Earth the way most of us dream of it: surrounded by family, loved until the end. It surprised no one, but that doesn’t matter. It’s always too soon.

He leaves behind 3 siblings, 6 children and his wife (my grandma.) And me, one of twelve grandchildren.

I remember him as a farmer, even though he made a career as a flight line mechanic at Boeing. He had a fondness for old country music and short-sleeve dress shirts. A stroke many years ago took away some of his speed, but his sense of humor remained intact.

My brother sent me a vague text to call him on the night he died. I was on a date, in the middle of a Scrabble game suddenly placed on hold. I spent the rest of the night digging through shoeboxes, looking for old photos I’d taken of him. The image at the top is my grandpa at his birthday party in 1999. It’s a rockin’ photo.

I called my mom the next day to check on her, and we talked about the business of dying. There were funeral plans to make, burial plots to purchase and affairs to get in order. I felt really guilty for not being able to attend the funeral because of my poor planning. But as any good mother would do, she struck the perfect mixture of “lesson to be learned” and “it’s alright.” My dad urged me to enjoy life.

Toward the end of the conversation, she mentioned a family viewing at the funeral home the next day. She was ready for it, she said, curious to see what her dad looks like. It was a shocking statement, but she continued: he’d been in a state of decline for so long that she was looking forward to seeing and remembering him at peace. I could feel tears form as I quickly hung up the phone.

He was buried on a sunny, crisp Friday in Kansas. Back in Illinois, I lit two votive candles at a downtown church while on my lunch break. I’ll miss him.