The First Time I Watched Someone Take Their Last Breath

I was 8 years old when I watched my grandfather consciously choose his final breath — here’s the story.

The first memory I have of my grandfather was when he came to our house on 18th ave for a visit and he had to duck his head to get from room to room. Being 6 ft. 7, the doorways in our old 1930s rental home were no match for his height.

I knew he was an important and well-known person because of what my mom would constantly tell me, but I didn’t really know what that meant — and being a kid, I really didn’t care. He felt like a unicorn to me because of his height, the size of his hands, the darkness of his skin, and the way I felt like I was on a roller coaster every time he picked me up and lifted me into the sky to greet me — not because of his fame.

The memories are sparse as I didn’t see much of him, he was a busy man working as a politician in his final years before going into retirement.

I can remember his pants being too short because his legs were so long.

I remember him eating these puffy chip snacks that tasted weird that my mom called pigs’ ears.

I remember the time when my brother stood up in a quiet room with hundreds of people in the parliament building and yelled “grandpa, you’re wearing a pirate hat!” just like it was yesterday.