It was a surreal day. Anywhere from four to nine people sat in a room without AC during a hot and humid Florida day, talking about anything from phone games like Words With Friends to old times in New York and Miami, all simultaneously trying to forget a cold and bitter fact that stared them in the face. Conversations about Angry Birds and how Pinky's and Grandma Gentry's grandfather used to beat them senseless when they acted up as children were periodically interrupted by a low guttural moan that would cut through laughter and good feelings to bring everyone in the room back down to Earth.

Everyone would glance over to the middle of the room and lay eyes on the bed Hospice had set up with vibrant red sheets and a hideous bright yellow blanket and see a skeleton of a man lying there near-motionless and his mouth agape in what could only be pain. There lied John Gentry, a great man. He was adorned in a hospital gown and his bald head sat awkwardly on his pillow. If it weren't for the blanket, everyone would have seen his bony body lying in a pile, as if dropped there carelessly.

It was a sad day. It was the day that saw a strong woman like my Grandma Gentry cry because the love of her life was slowly fading, non-responsive, and in unfathomable pain. The doctors said the night before he had suffered another stroke and that his aneurysm had burst, leading to blood in his stool. They informed Grandma he would most likely die within a day. Everyone who could was stopping by to pay last respects and to support Grandma in her saddest moments. At times, it felt like a family reunion. At others, it felt like a viewing.

I remember visiting Grandma in the hospital when she had her knee surgery. I was talking to her about my fiancée Sian and she told me about how she met Grandpa. I don't remember every detail of the story, but I do remember looking into her eyes and seeing how much she loved him. She may have an abrasive, in-your-face way of dealing with the world, but when it came to this man, she was clearly head over heels in love and he made her so very happy. Listening to her recount stories of their relationship and watching her facial expressions made me happy, too. It was infectious. It was love.

It was an exhausting day. Even if I only worked a grand total of four and a half hours, the six hours I spent sitting on the couch in that room ripped my heart out more times than I will ever experience again. I was happy to be in company and then ashamed to have felt happiness while I watched my grandfather die in front of me. The groans stabbed my heart as I glanced over and watched his mouth close a little and his eyebrows furrow in the most agonising fashion. Every two hours, Grandma Gentry would give him pain medicine with a syringe because he could no long swallow pills, and that's how I watched the time roll by.

It was a quiet night. I wasn't there, but I know my mom left our house to go back to the grandparents' house around two in the morning because the dogs woke me up with their barking and I noticed she was not in her bed. At four thirty in the morning, she called me to let me know he had passed. She later told me that his breathing had become raspy and laboured and the nurse informed him that his time was coming and began to explain how the stages of his death would work. Uncle John interrupted and asked if they could turn the breathing machine off, it was annoying him, and the nurse explained they could, that it wasn't for his breathing, but his brain. Then, they watched as his breathing went through different patterns before settling on a long pause followed by a short rasp and finally, silence. The nurse checked his pulse and informed the family he had passed.

When they arrived to take him away, my mother and my uncle dressed him in his favourite shirt. All of his deformities melted away. He had a full head of hair, his brain was in full working condition, he had perfect vision, and he was his old self again. He was a great man, again. At least, that's what my mother told me. It made her smile. It made me smile.

Today, there was an empty spot in the room where his bed used to be, Hospice having taken it away before I arrived. There was an empty spot in my grandmother's heart. There was an empty spot in all of our lives. We had lost someone we cared for and no manner of foreshadowing could prepare us for that loss. He had known for quite some time he was going to die and had made the appropriate plans for it, having been in the business of transporting bodies earlier in his life, but we were still unprepared for the end. Even his bones giving off a weak wheezing noise was having him more than when they drove off with his body. But being the family we are, we will stand strong and remember him forever.

John Gentry has died. He was a great man.