I lost my great grandfather almost two years ago and since then it's been hard, he was my rock, and to this day I hate that my family never let me say my last goodbyes, I hate that the last memory I had with him was his gravestone and the trumpets playing in the background, I resent them for taking away something I knew I had to but never wanted to, since according to poeple there, I was his light of his life, he smiled when he said my name, and yet I was not there when he left, and I hate the world for that.
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