My grandpa died 17 years ago today. His was the first experience with death I ever really had. Cancer. I'm not one to dwell on stuff like that, but I was talking about him with my aunt today. She and I were talking about introducing my future husband to my father and how my dad is a bigger teddybear than he sometimes lets off. She said that my dad and my uncle have the same sense of humor that Grandpa had, and she asked if I remembered that. I had to admit that I don't really remember conversations with him anymore. It's more mental images. Like the Snoopy bandaid over one of his many needle pokes when he was in the hospital. But most vividly I remember him kissing my forehead when I would walk in the door at their house, and to this day, I find that to be one of the sweetest gestures ever.