The current 24 hours celebrates two very conflicting memories. On January 10th, 2008, on the eve of his 81st birthday, and just days after getting out of the hospital, my grandfather took his own life with a gun shot straight to his heart. And tomorrow Jan 11 would have been his 89th birthday. My grandfather survived my mom, his only child, and wife by ten years. I dont know how he kept going. I barely did. He was never prone to depression but he was angry. The last Christmas I ever really had was 1999 when I moved back in with him. I bought a Christmas tree and tried my best to make some semblance of a holiday. It had been less than two years since we lost my mother and grandmother in the same year. He asked me why did I bother. Nothing means anything and g-d didn't care. I couldn't offer any solace. I couldn't bring us any peace. And we found ourselves at odds more often than not after that. I have since never had a Christmas tree in my home again. My grandfather somehow always kept a wicked sense of humor though. And I will always remember him fishing on the dock, or on his boat and loving his town house on the water; that was all he ever wanted. A self made man who always told me he had no regrets in his life even when horrible things happened. I remember him watching movies at night with my mom. With the closed captioned on. You never heard a damn thing because he would ask my mom a million questions or complain, Esto es un paquete. If the movie didn't follow it's own bullshit rules, he wasnt going to either. Click. Tv turned off. He spent a lifetime yelling at the Dolphins on TV. and they gave him many years to yell about. LOL. My grandfather traveled the world. He came from nothing and built his own business and provided for three generations under one roof. He was secretly sentimental. after his death, I found a collection of papers he kept, form his first work permits dating back to 1945 in Cuba along with his Chofer's license issued in Cuba but with people and addresses in Trenton, NJ, and Brooklyn, NY. I am left with so many questions on all the odd jobs and experiences this scrapper of a man did as he moved his wife and daughter to Miami in the late 40's and early 50's. He was no saint but he was a force of nature. He did whatever he wanted. And he died as he lived, sitting on the patio on the dock, with the water and sun the last thing he saw in his life.