Last year, my grandfather passed away. June 27th 2015 at 10pm. He was in the hospital for a week because of a suspicious lump. During that week we found it to be Non-Hodgkins lymphoma. His hopeful recovery was a roller coaster, with many ups and downs. He was scheduled for surgery that monday.

The 27th rolls around and everyone thinks he's doing much better. See, leading into this, he was extremely agile for someone of his age. He played tennis and went to the gym up until a week before all this. 10pm rolls around and I get the news via text from the mother. My grandfather requested on his own cognitive will, he no longer wanted to fight for his life. He died shortly after.

This man was my rock. Standing behind everything I've ever done, was him. He never let me give up, and he always encouraged me to push harder than ever before.

I weeped my tears of sorrow. I also refused to believe it was true. "How could a man of such physical health be cut so drastically thin like this?" I'd ask. I still mourn his leaving. It is still very difficult to take in. I still think about him every single day.

Pepere, I won't say goodbye. Goodbye is forever. No, Pepere, until we meet again.