I was thirteen when my Grandpa Cadigan died. I spent his last summer with him, watching as a fast-acting cancer consumed more of him everyday. When he passed, his oldest son, my Uncle Tommy, was at his bedside. The rest of us who were on our way to visit him in hospice arrived too late. It was the first time I saw a dead body in a bed instead of a casket. Shortly after, I stood outside with my uncle as he smoked a cigarette. He told me I was too young to have seen so much death.