It wouldn’t hurt so bad if he had been suffering for ages. It wouldn’t hurt so bad if our last meeting hadn’t ended so abruptly. It wouldn’t hurt so bad if he had lived a good long life, if he had been as old as Methuselah. He just had so much left to do. It wouldn’t hurt so bad if he had lived to see the grandbabies. It wouldn’t hurt so bad if she had gone unexpectedly quick, like the wind blowing out a flame. It wouldn’t have hurt so bad if she had known us at the end. It wouldn’t be so hard if we could have said goodbye. It wouldn’t hurt so bad if…if…if, if, if. If. But the truth is, the only way it wouldn’t hurt so bad is if we hadn’t loved them. And if they hadn’t loved us back. But yet we tell ourselves these lies, attempting to masquerade our grief, and make excuses for why we sob as they slipped from this life into the next one. Isn’t this true for anybody you lose? Anyone you cared for? Eight years ago, Colonel Thomas made me a promise via Facebook messenger. “Please don’t die,” I wrote, somewhat beseechingly. I was at KFC with Uncle Dale, immediately following the funeral of Joe…