My grandfather grew up on a farm.
The neighbor down the road was a known drunk, and my grandfather and his dad were out working early one morning and saw his black car come teetering down the road. Not uncommon. Those being the early days of automobiles (let's say early 1930s), drunk driving was more sort of frowned upon.
So they sort of chuckled and watched him drive past on his way home to catch hell from the old lady, and went back to their work, and in a few seconds they heard a terrible CRASH and HISS and, worst of all, bloodcurdling screams from the neighbor.
They dropped their hoes and started sprinting down the road towards the wreck. They got closer and closer and heard the panic in his voice as his screams began to form words: 'I'M BLIND! I'M BLIIIIIIINNNNDD!'
They finally rounded the bend and found the car, which was rammed headfirst into a tree with the hood popped up, and their neighbor, sitting in the driver's seat, completely unharmed but drunk as a skunk, staring straight at that black hood in front of his face and screaming about his blindness.
He grew up farming, and I swear, he could make anything grow.
I spent this afternoon planting daisies, impatiens, vines and onions. Every time I plant anything, I feel closer to him.
Boy, do I miss him.
It still hurts. It still aches. I still miss him so much.
It's a common grief. I know everyone misses someone. The way you can miss someone just being alive and on the planet, in the general mix of people, making that general mix better.