My Man.

Tonight, I cried while watching "Glee". But not for any obvious reasons.

I cried because Lea Michele sang the crap out of "My Man" from "Funny Girl". But not for any obvious reasons.

I cried because it reminded me of my grandfather. Pop pop. Louis. Lou.

You see, during the very short time between his life and his death, I spent an incredibly hard/moving/intense amount of time with Pop. In fact, it was me and my uncle Bobby who found Pop after a fall and stroke - which wound him in the hospital where he declined alarmingly fast - and was checked out 24 hours later to go home and die with dignity.

On his last day on earth, Bobby and I found ourselves with him again in is bedroom - where I had played as a kid in his electric beds that would raise and lower with the push of a button. The beds in the apartment with the candy jar full of Andes mints and Nips coffee flavored hard candies. The tiny slot machine. The decks of cards I learned to play poker and blackjack on. The bottles of VO. The 1970s couches.

That day, while back in our trio in the bedroom, Bobby and I quickly realized that Pop wasn't really with us anymore. He was disoriented, confused - he thought at one moment that Bobby, his son, was one of his brothers. That I, his granddaughter, was his sister. He kept calling out for things and people who weren't on earth anymore. He was confused. He was scared. And it was terrifying to be around.

In a moment of sheer desperation born from a deep desire to settle his soul and calm him down, I opened my mouth and started to sing. To distract him, to help him find some peace. Pop had always loved hearing me sing. And sure enough... it worked. I sang "My Man" from "Funny Girl". At the top of my voice. With tears rolling down my cheeks. And he calmed down. He quieted. Bobby and I crying through it, knowing those would be some of our last moments with Pop. With Pop alive.

A few hours later, Pop was dead.

Things have been incredibly tense with that side of my family the past few months and it's been absolutely horrible and gut wrenching to go through. Hearts are heavy, relationships are seemingly irreparably damaged. Our family has lost its center, its heart, its purpose- and I can't help thinking that if Pop were still here, he'd demand that everyone act like grownups and behave appropriately - with Luck and with Love.

Every single day, I think of my grandfather. I think of his quirks and mannerisms. The way he insisted on tipping waiters before dinner was served - sometimes before he even sat down. How he would preach his revisionist history - he'd never been sick a day in his life and he and my grandmother had a "perfect" relationship (they did not!). How he would always tell me I was "looking good, kid" (even when I wasn't!). How he loved me, warts and all, and looked for the good in me when many people couldn't see it. I think of how he would sign all of his cards and end all of his conversations with his catchphrase of "Luck and Love". His handwriting is in my skin, literally, I have his Luck and Love tattooed on my body. With me always.

I miss you, Pop. I miss you terribly and I wish you were here to make this all better. But I know that's not possible, so tonight, with tears rolling down my cheeks again, I dedicate this to you - to your memory - to your spirit - to your heart. And I promise to you that I will continue to spread Luck & Love to everyone I know.