Remembering death and that we must all one day surrender to it.

I hold his soft hands and let them wrap around mine. We walk out the door, and it takes all my patience to match my steps with his. The road is rough and I look around to see that the rain has melted the red sand to form orangish-brown ponds. He promises me he will make paper boats for me to play with when we get back home, only because I enjoy it. It makes me smile, and I know that makes him happy.
The rain has started to pour again, but we have an umbrella. I want to leave his side and enjoy the rain, but he holds me close promising me things far better than the feeling of tiny droplets running down my face. 
I don't remember where we were going or why, for some reason my memory did not consider it important to remember. My memory however, remembers the journey.

On another day he calls out to me while I'm playing upstairs. Dark sunglasses adorned his face and he was sipping tea. He enjoyed every slurp he took and smacked his lips, " Would you like some?", he asked. And since having tea was a sign of maturity for me as a young child, I hastily grabbed it from his hands. Burnt tongue, too fast I reminded myself.
His hands were soft, fragile but not weak, the skin wry and hanging and I'd play with it without actually realizing what it implied. The past experiences embedded in his skin and the years that were left, the end beckoning." How do I look with these sunglasses on?", he asked. To me he looked great just the way he was, thin, beard covering his face filled with wrinkles and with sunglasses that sat perfectly on his nose, he never owned a pair until then. For me a  pair of sunglasses was an insignificant commodity for him then, a luxury.

Bottom row : Third from the left.

I try to unlock most of my childhood memories, cautious not to touch the memories that I don't want to remember and unwrapping the ones I never want to forget. As a child 10 years pass by as 10 months or less which is why I feel the time I spent with my grandfather ran faster than I wanted it to.
Stories. A grandparent favorite. Stories of how he juggled professions, teaching being his favorite. And that is exactly what he is remembered as,"Momin Master". He valued education far more than money, which is why he traveled to the north all the way from the south with very little money, to attend university.

As I walk by the grounds of my university I see dry leaves fallen on the ground, blown far away from the green and blooming tree it used to be a part of. But old leaves must fall and be replaced by fresher and healthier ones. New leaves. Sigh.
And I look at my father now, whose attitude is very similar to what I remember my grandfather's to be like. I look at his strong hands fearing that one day they too would wither away into just a memory.

The mirror stares back at me as I watch my life pass me by. What do I want to be remembered as? What do I want to be remembered for? Because today is all I am certain of and I have yet to imprint my memory on anybody.

We often forget that not all deaths are mourned. Not every death is a loss.

My grandfather, me and my sister.