My grandpa and grandma practically raised my sister and I.

At least 3 times out of the week they would pick us up from school.

Both my Mom and Dad were working.

My granpa and I would sit in the backyard and he would tell me about the "good old days."

By his own admission, they weren't really that good.

He was raised between Ohio and Kentucky.

He abhorred the racism in Kentucky, although he acknowledged it was only somewhat better in Ohio.

He used to smoke a lot and I used to whiff up that smoke.

My Mom smoked too.

I still like smokey rooms.

He passed away a few years ago.

He lost his mind.

Seemingly overnight.

He started screaming.

For no fucking reason.

I had to move him.

With my Dad.

He was screaming.

I don't think he knew where he was.

He was a great man.

He lost his mind.

No greatness will save you from losing that if you live long enough, I guess.

It doesn't matter how great, or smart, or hardworking you are.

He just screamed.

Then he was dead.

That was it.

One day I had a good conversation with him.

The next he was just screaming.

The next he was dead.