There are certain days that just hit me hard.  June 8. June 26th. And April 17th.  April 17th is the day my grandpa Keith passed away.  And although it's been 12 years (and I've blogged about it before) I still miss him every day.  

Twelve years.  He's been gone more than a third of my life. That seems about right, but then it seems like it couldn't possibly be that long, because I can still hear his voice.  I can still see the twinkle in his eye and the dimple in his chin. I have such sharp memories, and while that's a blessing, it's somewhat double-edged.  When you can't forget, the pain doesn't fade as much or as quickly.  I feel his absence in our family profoundly, just as I'm sure everyone in our family does.  

Someone made a page for him on findagrave.com, even though he has no grave site.  He was cremated.  I didn't know what to make of that at first, but I decided I like it.  Someone took the time to remember him and make a physical note that yes, he lived. I've had a hard time with the lack of a grave. I know that cemeteries are really just for the living, and that I can talk to him anywhere, but still.  There's that sense of closure that never really came.