Today is the first anniversary of my grandfather's death. I seem to be the only one to remember what day it is. No one in my "family" cares. No one cries. No one woke up at 6.25 a.m. (his time of death), staring at his photo wondering how could he possibly be gone.

One year passed, so many things changed in my life, mostly for the better. And yet it seems like it just happened. I remember his death so vividly. The hospital room, the nurses, his heartrending laments. My great sense of powerlessness in seeing that I couldn't do anything to lessen his pain or to save his life.

I never told him how much he meant to me. Hell, I didn't even know what he meant to me until I realized he was going to die. It was too late then to talk to him. I will never forgive myself. Ever.

There are so many things I'd like to tell him. I'll never get another chance to do so. I've had my chance and I blew it. I don't deserve to have him back, anyway. I should be dead in his place.