I thought about writing a letter. However, as we watched the flag being folded from the top of 91-year-old grandfather's coffin this past weekend, I knew what I needed to do.  As the crowd walked somberly back to their cars to escape the blustery Washington weather, my stepmom lingered for a moment, staring. I tapped her on the shoulder and started bawling as we embraced. Slowly my muddled whisper came out, "Thanks for doing what we couldn't."

October started much like any other month for my family, but the first two weeks would my grandfather's last. My grandmother died almost 10 years ago after 56 years of marriage and a bout with leukemia. She did everything for my grandpa: laid out his clothes, cooked three meals a day, cleaned, raised his kids, planned functions, and helped him start his business years ago.  She ran a tight a ship, but they loved each other with a commitment that is a seemingly dying breed these days.  After she was gone, he understandably was never the same.