On Friday, on a clear, sunny and warm day in Scunthorpe, I and the rest of my family laid to rest my Grandfather. Allan Dent passed away on 9th September, at the ripe old age of eighty-six.
I wanted to write something about him before this, but I didn’t know where to start. I still don’t. For the past five years Grandad suffered from an increasingly-worsening dementia which left him unable to recognise me, or other family members. It’s been a truly heartbreaking experience, like an open wound festering at the back of my mind. Watching parts of him washed away by an unstoppable tide, its something I wouldn’t wish on anybody.
But that, as horrific as it was, is not how I will remember my Grandad.