There are days I can forget. For years now I have been a couple hundred miles away from where he lived, I was used to not seeing or talking to him on a regular basis, but each time I drive back to the state I still claim as home, I am reminded all over again that he is gone... forever.
The other day I took my scissors out of their case (I had a haircut to do) and quarter dropped out. I knew immediately what it was. I remembered putting it there last summer just before leaving for Iraq. It was a drummer boy quarter. Grandpa always collected them, telling us that someday they would be worth something more than 25 cents. I had put that quarter there so I would remember to give it to Grandpa when I went home next. I'd always cut his hair and he'd tell me what great job I did - that I was much better than his barber. The day I put that quarter in my scissor-case I didn't know I'd never cut his hair again or have the chance to give it to him.
It may seem silly and rather unimportant, but it is the little things - reminders of the things I didn't do or say that make it hardest. There is never a good time to say good-bye, but at least a bad time is better than never being able to say it at all.
