The day finally came，when I had to leave the warm home where I'd grown up.I ran to the back yard，as tears came up from my heart.Suddenly I1a hand rest on my shoulder.I looked up to2mygrandfather.“It isn't3 ， isit，Billy？”he said softly.
Gently4myhand in his，we walked，hand in hand，tothe front yard，5a hugered rosebush sat alone.
“What do you see here，Billy？” he asked.I looked at the flowers，not knowing6to say，and then answered，“I see something soft and7 ， grandpa.”
He pulled me8.“It isn't just the roses that are beautiful，Billy.It's that special place in your heart that makes them so.”“Billy，I9these roses when my first son was born.It was my10of saying 'thank you' to God.I11to watch him pick roses for his mother. Then, as a young man of only 20，a terrible war robbed him of his life.” Grandpa slowly stood up.“Never say goodbye，Billy. Never12to the sadness and the loneliness.Instead，I want you to remember the joy and the13when you first said hello to a friend.”
A year later，my grandpa became very14.Then all members of the family were15back，and I returned to the old house. When it came to my16 ， I took his hand as17as he had once taken mine.
“Hello，grandpa，”I18.His eyes slowly opened and said，“Hello，my friend.” With a brief19he died. Suddenly，and truly.I knew what he had20about never saying goodbye—about refusing to give in to sadness.
