hearing the news

when i was small—and i mean before 1987 small—a little boy i used to play with in my grandparents' neighborhood died after being struck by a car. (that is one of my least favorite phrases, by the way. "struck by a vehicle" and variants thereof are very ugly words.)
it was unexpected. when i heard of it i was sitting behind our brown recliner with the brass-looking rivets. a friend was over. and i blew it off.
"did you know that kid?"
"yeah," shrugging my shoulders.
what else was i supposed to do? i'd never see him again. was he in hell? did he trust Jesus? i didn't know how to react.
but i was heartbroken.
his name was Paul.
and sometimes i think about his family.
this month is my grandpa's memorial service. he died in his sleep a few weeks ago. a thing we knew would come. expected even. i read it in a text one morning. i didn't know how i'd react to his death. i knew i would see him again by and by.
turns out i smiled. i rejoiced. all i could think of was the wonders he was beholding. seeing clearly. hearing.
Jesus.
but i'm heartbroken.
his name is Roger.
i always think about his family.
and how they just welcomed him home.