My grandfather was a special kind of hero in my life. He and my grandmother raised five children in this tiny farm house in Illinois, which they lived in together for 58 years. After landing in NYC, I found myself often referring to the farm as my favorite place on earth - words that sometimes surprised even me until I remembered the simple things I loved about the place; the early mornings being woken up by the smell of a thick midwestern breakfast, the pick-up football games in the field outside the house, the whole family being crammed into the tiny living room to share stories, and the blanket of silence at night, broken only by the occasional cars whirring past on the nearby 2-lane highway.
My grandfather died in 2007 at the age of 78 after a 24 year battle with cancer. He was sick for most of my life, but I never really saw it affect him until the very last year. The fact that he had seemed so invincible, and remained so positive all those years, made it extremely difficult for me to accept that the disease had actually taken his life.
A few months after his funeral, I went back to say goodbye to the farm and take some photos. I had never seen any part of the house, inside or out, look anything but impeccably clean. The moment I saw this corner with its dingy siding, I knew and began to accept that he was gone.
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