It all started just like any other brisk summer day in 2004, when I went to my grandma and grandpas, but it was soon to change very quickly. We were just getting up to start the day, and my grandma was starting to make some hamburgers. With the smell of greasy hamburger meat in the air, my grandpa went into the kitchen and sat at the table. In about four minutes, I went and looked into the kitchen from the living room, and I saw him fall back in his chair hitting the floor with a loud bang as loud as a gunshot. 

I just stood there watching as grandma went to help him.  She was screaming his name trying to get him to wake up. Bill! She called the ambulance, and they told her to give him CPR! I just stood there just avoided of emotion, staring at them thinking that’s how life is, everyone will die eventually you can’t change that.  As the ambulance arrived, the paramedics took grandpa to the hospital and we followed behind.  As we sat in the hospital my mom and the rest of my family came in. I went to look at what the doctors were doing, and they were shocking him with the defibrillator.  I was as calm as can be during the entire incident not getting sad or upset. After that I went back and sat down for the rest of the time.  After a while the doctor came out and told us grandpa was dead.  They said that a vein popped or something along the lines of that. The doctor said he was dead before they even arrived at the hospital.  I felt as if I knew it was going to happen and already got over it. 

A few days later we attended his funeral, and my grandma spoke about how their life was together as did the rest of my family. Then we went to the burial, and a couple of veterans shot some guns off because my grandpa served in the army at one point in time. At the end of the burial they gave my grandma a box containing an American flag and 10 or so rifle bullets inside.  Now I’m 17 looking back on that day hoping I’ve made my grandpa proud of whom I’ve become.