This week has been harder than most for my family. Our beloved patriarch, my Pop Pop, passed away this Wednesday from complications from Parkinson's Disease. Though this moment has been foreseen for years, as he was diagnosed when I was maybe six years old, it has shocked me all weekend that this day has finally come.

I had a good cry when my mom told me he was gone, and thought I would be fine till the day of the funeral. Like I said, this day has been coming for a while; I've had a black dress ready since my freshman year of high school. Yet in Mass today, when saying a silent prayer as I always do after Communion, I couldn't help but burst into tears as I realized that my prayer for Pop's health was now a prayer for his safe journey to Heaven. And when I looked up, my aunt, my mom, even my dad, who rarely cries, were in the same state.

Losing a grandparent isn't a foreign concept to most people. It's a heartbreaking fact, but it's true. Some of us grow up down the street from them, some of us see them once a year, and some of us never get to know them at all. But it's a loss that everyone must deal with at some point in their young life.

I've experienced both extremes of this loss, from the sudden collapse in my Granddad's health at age eight, to the slow deterioration of my Pop's health as I grew up. And let me tell you, no matter how sudden or drawn out this experience is, the pain of loss stings just the same.

But at the same time, the weekend spent with family and friends honoring this great man's life has been nothing short of incredible. In particular, my dad's side of the family is huge--my grandfather has seven kids, 15 grandchildren, and six great-grandchildren, and practically half of Long Island is extended family or a family-friend. I've had strangers or people I haven't seen in years stop me at the mall and give me hug. The love and respect for my Pop is felt everywhere I go.

We've spent days at my aunt's house going through photos of Pop, telling the iconic stories of growing up around him. When we hit those tender moments, there's always a hand to hold, open arms to give a hug, and comforting words that could only come from someone who loved him as much as you did.

But most of all, this week has reminded me that even though he's gone, my grandfather lived a great life, and because he did so, he will always be a part of my life. He loved his family, and he dedicated his professional life to the betterment of the New York courts as a judge and Supreme Court justice. He lived with purpose and always treated those he encountered with respect, regardless of who they were. He taught his family to see life as an opportunity to learn, to have intelligent, worldly conversations and to be forthright with one's opinions. And though I will never again hear his tremendous laugh, I will feel his influence in everything I do, as his life and his teachings have shaped who I am as a person.

Rest in peace, Judge. We'll be missing you.