Dear Diary

On the Tuesday before Hallowe'en, at 11:20 at night, my phone rang. Through the wonder of call display, I saw that it was my sister in Winnipeg calling. That time of night, it's probably not going to be good news.

My grandfather had died at 11:00 that night. He was 88 years old, and he went, like Grandma in April, quietly in his sleep.

The oldest Hrushowy in our line with the youngest in his arms.