It’s a simple grief.

On Thursday, my grandfather died.

He was 89. There was some Alzheimers — more on some days than on others — as well as the usual and not-entirely-gentle ravishes of aging. He moved slowly, forgot most things, recognized rarely, but he was happy. Happy to sit in his chair and stare at his wife of 65 years. Happy to eat pie for dinner. Happy to watch old movies. Happy, generally, to have earned the time to simply be happy and do…