Our first halloween as a married couple, Trey and I had elite plans of costumes and parties and junk food and fun. We were dressing up as a cowboy and cowgirl, in stereotypical fashion. It was simple, and never mind the fact that Trey owns enough cowboy boots to outfit a football team.
I pulled into work at the bank, anxious to get the Friday afternoon over with. Minutes after I walked in the door, slipped on my headset, and assumed my teller responsibilities, my phone rings.
The vibrating against the metal countertop shook me to my core. It might as well have been me vibrating.
I picked it up and slipped into the back to hear the words I already knew were coming.
I had been making the three hour drive between college and the hospital that housed my grandfather's rapidly deteriorating body for weeks. Earlier that week, we had collectively made the decision to take him off life support. His body wasn't his home anymore.
But it didn't make those words any easier to hear. I'm sure my blood-drained and tear-stained face looked pretty halloween-esque as her words sliced my soul.
"He's not here anymore, Leah. You need to come on home."
I walked in a stupor into my boss's office, but didn't have to say a word. She already knew. "Go on home, sweetie. I'll see you when you get back."
I posed as a race car drive as I went to pick up Trey, and we sped down the interstate faster than we should have, but in slow motion all at the same time.
As I turned down the gravel road into Poppa's house, I knew we wouldn't ride horses down it anymore.
No more would he sing "Swing low, sweet chariot" as we raced through the hayfields or put out hay for the cows.
No more would he sneak the good candy into my halloween bucket because he wasn't supposed to have favorites, but I was "as close as they come."
Halloween, or any other day for that matter, would never be the same.
No more new memories would be made, but thankfully I'll cherish the ones I have until I can see him again.