When I was nine years old, my paternal Grandfather died. At first I was very sad, but all my adult relatives explained that I didn't need to be, because Grandpa was now in a better place and was happy and content.
"We know you loved him very much, but he couldn't stay here any more," they assured me. "He needed to be somewhere where he can run and jump and play fetch, and he couldn't do that here. So we gave him to a nice family that lives on a farm, and now he's healthy and happy and doesn't have those coughing fits like he had here.
"Someday we'll go visit him there, but not for a long time. It's really hard to get to this farm, and you can't see it from the road, so we can't show it to you. Ever. But it's a wonderful place. And all his friends are there, and even his mommy and daddy are there. And they all run around chasing rabbits all day, having fun, and nothing ever hurts. Because the farmer is really kind to them, feeds them well, pets them every day, and loves them very much."
Grandma isn't there, though, she still lives with us. But I still wonder why her markings changed while I was away at summer camp.
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