I'm in the territory of a couple of anniversaries.
First of all, a couple of weeks ago it was ten years to the day that my Granddad Michael died. He was a cheeky chappy. Your typical Irish man, who loved Guinness and betting on the horses. He had a very dry sense of humour (Mum says that's where I get it from); he died whilst I was still too young to understand or appreciate the wit.
Michael was a remarkable man - because he wasn't my real granddad at all. Infact, he took on the responsibility for my Dad and his other six siblings. That's a huge undertaking, and is also kinda romantic. Think about how much my Nan must have meant to him, for him to decide to commit to that? I think he was a better man than me. Faced with the same decision, I'm not sure how I'd react.
That November back in 2005 when he died went by so quickly. Nobody even knew he was sick. Then one day he was sent to hospital, and days later he was gone. I've written before about how I regret my last words to him, but ultimately I don't think they really matter. We all know, don't we, that our family love us - so I guess he knew what I couldn't say already.
A year ago, almost, Nan died. I wrote about that here. The pain of her death is still very fresh in my mind. A month or so ago, there was a sad moment in my sister's car where she told me that she's reached the point now where she misses Nan. Not that initial grief you feel after a death, but what come afterwards: that longing to hear the voice again, and laugh/joke in their company. I know what she means.
Two people now gone from my life, both sadly missed.