Warm tears streamed down my face, as my plain black shoes crunched across the dewy grass, wet with the tears of a thousand mourners. Then I saw it. Practically shouting in my face that he was dead, that I would never see him again, never hear his strong voice, never eat his hand-prepared fish, never hold his wrinkled hand, never watch Monday Night Football with him again; I fell to my knees, the weight of his death was too much. My long fingers, so like his own, brushed over the inscription.

CHARLES JOHN GREENSON 1937-2012

“Grandpa” I choked out, my voice cracking with grief. My head drooped over the tombstone, and I sobbed, emotions pouring out of me like an overflowing faucet.

I could have lain there forever, if not for a small black feather. Very much like the one he always wore on his hat.

What could this mean?