He kept saying he didn’t want a big goodbye.
“Just a sandwich, a folding chair, and a quiet lake,” Grandpa told me. “I don’t need all the fuss.”
But we knew. We all knew this wasn’t just a casual Saturday picnic. His surgery was scheduled for Monday morning. They said it was routine, but when a man his age says things like “just in case I don’t bounce back,” it hits different.
So I loaded the car with snacks, lawn chairs, and two Styrofoam containers of the greasy diner food he loved. My cousin met us out there with extra blankets, just in case the breeze turned sharp.
And there we were—three generations of family, gathered on the shores of a quiet lake, the sound of water lapping against the dock, and the air filled with the comforting scent of freshly cut grass and the crispness of the morning. Grandpa had been coming here for years, long before I was born, and it had become a tradition that was uniquely his. A tradition I didn’t realize meant so much until that day.
