Yesterday, while my grandfather was dying, I led a book group discussion on Rousseau’s Confessions, another man’s attempt to square his stories with the world, and all I could think about was my grandfather’s endless stories at the diner, imagining Rousseau’s protégés rolling their eyes when …
This is the tribute my daughter Stephanie wrote about her grandfather (yes, my dad), who died last night.
I got to hold his hand while he passed over and tell him how loved he was and that he made the world a better place.
I have a lot more to say about this, but my face is raining so hard it is flooding my keyboard. So for now, just read what my kid wrote.