Saturday Mornings

He was always there every Saturday morning, Waiting for us to be ready to go. “You ready to go to dierbergs?” “One minute grumpy!” My grandma replies. Every Saturday morning rain or shine he would be there. He was always fine; every time we saw each other he’d wink and wiggle his ears. Until that one day. Until the day that he had a stroke and wasn’t feeling right. Until the days where he was in pain with every breath. It was then that we knew what would happen. It was then that we knew he was going to leave. It was then that we knew what we had to say. It was then we found out how hard it is to say goodbye.