[ WP ] `` Every person sees the world in a unique way . When someone dies it is , in a way , the death of an entire world . ''

I was too young at the time to really understand, but I want to share with you the best conversation I've ever had. It was my grandfather, in the days before he died rapidly of cancer. The family was all together, sharing superficial smiles around a man who clearly did n't appreciate the attention. He'd call them out for their crocodile tears, hovering closely so that they may be the first in his pockets after his last breath. Of course, spoken quite a bit more crudely than this, I honestly ca n't remember half his euphemisms, as hard as I've tried. 
 
 I do n't know why I was drawn to such a man, but in his unfiltered, brutal manner, he was sincere and straightforward. It was captivating I suppose, listening to the raw truth of a straight-shooter with no reason left to hold back. I knew little of the machinations and politics of my extended family, but it was jarring to watch, one by one, distant relatives coming to bid him farewell, leaving teary eyed after the admonishments he'd deliver without pause or notice. 
 
 In the end it was only us that were left, my mother and I. She was far too fragile to get a tongue lashing from her dying father, so it ended up being me and him, sitting in silence for hours on end. Perhaps he tolerated me for those lengths because I was n't hovering over his estate? It's something I've never quite figured out. 
 
 One evening out of the blue, he asked me if I read. 
 
 `` I know how to read,'' I sheepishly replied. 
 
 `` No son, do you read? Do you enjoy reading books?'' he said with a faint smile. I shook my head in the affirmative. 
 
 `` Cherish that,'' he said, clearing his throat, `` the most beautiful thing in the world is a good book.'' 
 
 I must've had a bewildered look on my face, because he quickly continued, `` a book is someone's imagination, put down on paper. And every person sees the world in a unique way. When someone dies... in a way it's the death of an entire world.'' 
 
 I had a question that I did n't quite know how to ask, my young mind was stumbling over concepts that were just out of my grasp, even though looking back I feel like he knew his train of thought was too heady for an eight year old boy and had already dumbed it down as far as he thought necessary. 
 
 `` Every book is a piece of someone's imagination, and that is a precious thing that most people throw away. It's the only bit of them that can live on, after their body fails them. If you want to live forever, write.'' 
 
 A nurse entered the room a moment later, and he instructed her that he'd like to get some rest. She gingerly ushered me to my mothers' side, head spinning with thoughts that had no words, a force without form. He passed later that night, after we had left, and you could imagine his funeral was quick and low key, with only a handful of us there to see him off. 
 
 I had long forgotten all of that until now, when sorting through my mothers' belongings, I found a fat, battered manila envelope. And out slid a hand-typed draft, *The Birth of Worlds* by Hermann Paulsson. And I was flooded with emotion I did n't know I had, pent-up sorrow for losing a man I barely knew, but who planted a seed of curiosity in me. I clutched the stack of papers tight to my chest as I wiped my face. Everything I was, was made in that hospital room, and I owe him everything for opening my eyes to a world I did n't know existed, within myself. And here was his. 
 
 Paps, I'll never forget you. Maybe now the world can know you too, better late than never right? I crossed my legs on the bare wood floor, and opened the manuscript.
