A few years ago, my husband and I spent two weeks visiting family in England. We spent those early days of March blissfully free of the wind and snow that seems to linger at our Pennsylvania home, enjoying blooming daffodils in public gardens and alongside country roads. One day, the weather was warm enough to have ice cream near the sea, our backs against a stone wall, our faces turned up toward the sun to soak in its long-awaited warmth.
This wasn’t an ordinary trip to England. The previous fall, my grandad had passed away after a brief battle with cancer. His death was rare and beautiful in two ways. First, in that his life was so well and honestly lived that no one who knew him can talk about him with an ounce of bitterness, except at the bitterness of his passing. Second, that most of his family spent that last week of his life by his side, having cake and tea in the garden, playing music for him as he sat in the sun, tucked up with blankets and holding the hand of his wife of 57 years.
