Le grand-pere des Voitures is leaving us. It's a sad time for our family. We've been thrown into that strange suspended time where nothing really matters but the care and comfort of our loved one, and spending moments together. Everyone has been sharing stories around his bedside for the past few days, and even though I've heard almost all those stories before, it's amazing how comforting sharing a laugh about times past can be.

Having lost a parent at a young age, I've felt ever since then that I've somehow been hardened against the effects of loss. And grand-pere is old. We're finding some comfort in the fact that he has lived a long, full life that was largely untouched by illness up until the past month or so. But I'm finding that the loss of someone who means so much to my love's life is immensely painful. It's hard to watch him slowly slip away. It's hard to watch my usually stoic husband grieve.

It's been an unusual experience to walk through this process with our children. J, of course, is too young for attempted explanations. But A seems to understand the idea and appears to "get" what we're telling him, but only at that moment. The permanence of death is lost on a child of 5, as I suppose it should be. I feel so sad for our kids, that they'll only have met two of their grandparents, and that their memories of grand-pere will likely diminish over time since they are so young. I've looked at them differently these past few days. Their blue eyes, for which grand-pere is partly responsible, are more blue. J's resemblance to D's side of the family has become more obvious.

It's strange to me how we can pray for quick and peaceful end, but still wish with some part of our being (a selfish part, I suppose) that we didn't have to say goodbye. My childish being wants to believe that grand-pere is going to a place to be welcomed by those who have gone before. My adult being believes he will be whole again, and comfortable, and released, and at peace. I suppose we are now left to send him on with those thoughts.