When I open my eyes I can hear her. My grandmother, down the hall. She’s on the phone, she's crying, I hear her say my fathers name. I walk quietly out of the guest room and towards the master.

“I think he’s nearing the end, I’m calling hospice when I hang up.”

This is it, the night he died.

I enter the room as she leaves it and there he is. Laying in bed motionless, more sickly green than deep tan he once was, hooked up to an oxygen tank and taking slow, raspy breaths.

I stop breathing. I walk slowly to his bedside and sit down on the floor next to him. I missed him the first time, I’ll be with him tonight even if it’s just in an echo. I place my hand on his, just to see if I can feel it. He’s cold to the touch but I can touch him.

“Missy…Prissy..” It’s almost a whisper but he’s talking, I turn to look and see him staring back at me.

But he can’t be staring at me, I wasn’t here. I turn to look behind me but there isn’t anyone there. His hand twitches a little in mine and I turn back to him.

He is still staring.

“Papaw?” My voice is breaking as it struggles to get past the lump in my throat.

He smiles. He is looking at me, hearing me, how?

“You’re so big” his voice is so weak, but he's smiling as he speaks to me.

“I’m all grown up” I have no way to explain to him why, I was thirteen the last time he saw me, how could I possibly explain my adulthood.

“Little Missy Prissy Busy-body.” It’s slow, but he gets all the words out, my nickname.

I laugh and tears start to fall.

“What’re you doin here?” He asks, I can tell he’s getting a bit winded from all the talking.

I take a minute to think of an answer.

“I came to see you, I wanted to see you again.”

There’s a long silence, no sound but his struggling breaths.

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“I’m goin.”

So he knows.

“Yeah”

He nods weakly in acknowledgment. I’m crying hard, trying to think of what to say. I didn’t expect to be able to talk to him here.

“I love you so much, I just wanted to tell you that,” I can feel myself breaking down worse as the words come pouring out, so many years of thinking about all the things I wish I had said and now I can’t think of them, I finally get a second last chance to say it all and it’s gone.

I feel his thumb stroking my hand, gentle and slow. It doesn’t matter, the words never mattered with him. I’m flooded with memories of my time with him, how little he ever spoke and how loved I always felt. He already knew. Everything I thought I needed to say he could feel.

I continued to cry, but the sobs softened, my crying became gentle again and I just sat there with him, hand in hand. I sat with him and watched as his struggling breaths finally stopped.

I remain there holding his hand as my grandmother turns the corner back into the room, I hear her gasp and start to sob as she notices that he’s gone and I stand, and move to the other side of the room to watch.

The rest of the night goes exactly how I remember. I’m the next to arrive, out of breath from running up the stairs. I break down at his bedside and beg him to come back and let me say goodbye. I sit there and sob, leaving only when I hear my parents make it to the door. My mother places her hand on my fathers shoulder as their tears begin. She stays out in the hall as he takes his moment with his father. The adults stand in the hall just outside, speaking in hushed tones when my brother arrives. He bursts in much like I did, already sobbing by the time his knees hit the floor, begging for more time for several minutes before standing, only to collapse again into the arms of our father for comfort. After he leaves the bedroom I follow, he was the last person to enter the bedroom that night.

As I enter the living room I see myself, sitting in my grandfather's chair where I spent the rest of the night. My face is completely blank, my eyes fixed forward with nothing behind them. Occasionally I look over at the small side table beside me, where all his empty sprite cans filled with chewed up cigars still sit, only to face forward again seconds later with the same dead-eyed stare. I go and sit next to myself in my grandmother's seat, she won't be using it tonight.

I watch as the visitors arrive, one at a time, most leaving before the next one arrives. They go straight to my father or grandmother, they recite the usual platitudes, so sorry for your loss, he is in a better place, he’s not in pain anymore. Why we force the grieving to pretend these are a comfort I have never understood. Only one of them addresses me as she sits silently off to the side, a man from church with children my age. He meets her gaze and gives her a sympathetic smile.

“He was a good man.”

That's all he says. He’s right, my grandfather was a good man. He had his faults as all men do, but he was a good man. She doesn't acknowledge his statement or his smile, but he doesn’t seem to expect her to. As soon as his statement is finished, he turns away from her and addresses the adults. She sits there alone for the rest of the night, silent, still. I hear the train go by, that's when I feel the final pearl heating up to tell me it’s time. I go back into his room and take one last look. I take his hand one last time as I remove the necklace from my pocket. I drop it onto the floor and with a pop, I’m alone in the master bedroom.