Amazing story by Christina Strigas.
I found my grandfather’s funeral program in the junk drawer, looking for batteries to put in the remote-control car my son had just unwrapped for Christmas. I found it underneath the Chinese take-out menus, phone books and old coupons; he was Xeroxed on the front in black and white, a young 18-year-old version I had never met with a full head of hair in a Navy uniform. The duration of his life was scrawled underneath his picture like an expiration date—good from 1926-2004.
My grandfather—William Mark Adler the third—died five years ago from prostate cancer, three days after Adam’s birth. His death was expected, like a long-awaited foreclosure on a house. Cancer had been a ruthless landlord, cutting the last of his cognitive abilities off like lights, evicting him from his body one day too soon; so that when my wife, Lydia, laid his two-day-old grandson on his chest, he…
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