Growing up, I had always envisioned what my wedding day would be like. I repeatedly dreamt that my legs were shaking, and the palms of my hands were beginning to sweat. I did not know whether I should cry or shout out in high spirits. I looked at myself in the mirror, and staring back at me was a woman ready to make a commitment; an accomplished woman, in a beautiful gown; a flowing silk masterpiece, ready to take the first step towards the rest of her life. My maid of honor handed me my bouquet; it smelt of wild lilacs scattered with baby’s breath, and I headed for the back of the church. Before me were all the people that I love, and the women in my family who have already taken part in his lifelong tradition. A dance with my grandfather had finally arrived.
The man with whom I was ready to start a new life with awaited my last step taken as a single woman. As I walked down the aisle, many thoughts ran through my head. I wondered if this would be a marriage that would last forever. Before I could finish pondering the chance of failure, our eyes met, and I worried no more. After the ceremony, we headed off to celebrate our new marriage with family and friends, a part of the day that I had looked forward to all my life. The music was playing all through the night, and I patiently waited for my dance. He saw me looking at him from across the room, and he gracefully left his chair, and took my hand. And as he led me to the dance floor, I had never felt more proud to be his grand- daughter.
During the end of my junior year in high school, the hopes of taking part in our family’s tradition came to an end. The most influential man of my life was lying in the hospital bed before me. When the doctor told us the news, I couldn’t grasp reality. Cancer. I looked at my Papa, and he looked the same as he had the month before when I had met my grandparents for lunch. I kept thinking that this could not be happening; that it was not fair. My Papa was the glue that held...