Contributor: William Panara - - It was sunny the day they imploded my grandfather. He was 93 years old, wrinkled like a walnut shell, and had gotten the letter saying it was time. My whole family went to see it happen. We had our cameras so we could record the event. I still watch the video every now and then, in slow motion, dragging out those few seconds like a singer holding a note. The day before, the doctors had gone in and fitted him. Liquid explosives were placed around his pelvis, up the bridge of his spine. He showed us the stitches and said he couldn’t feel the nitroglycerin inside him, the same way a person can’t feel their kidneys or pancreas. My dad was proud and hugged him. Most people get their letter in their 80s, and he’d been able to last until 93. He’d gotten useless later than the others, retained some semblance...

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Author: William Panara