A Tragic Story of Family Past

I was too young to remember and too young to understand. I can recall vague snippets of conversation kept to a low whisper and a tearful explanation. I couldn't fully comprehend the gravity of what they meant when they said that Grandpa Smoke, my great-grandfather, wouldn't be around any more. 

My great-grandfather, Delbert Smoke, had moved  to Georgia with his wife Margery from Ohio so that they could be closer to their family. In Ohio, he  had owned a music shop, selling various instruments and such. He himself was a proficient musician who could play, if memory serves me right, 7 different instruments. I'm sure I've heard him sing before but I can't recall it perfectly.

According to all sources I asked, Grandpa Smoke had been the very definition in his every action. He was a quiet man, though, not in terms of volume. He didn't talk very often but when he did he made sure he was heard clearly. Furthermore, he had never been known to speak ill of anyone, no matter who they were or what they'd done. 

He died on Thanksgiving day, 2002. 

From all accounts I've received, it was perfectly good day. Nothing about it was out of place. We held the dinner at night that day, the first and last time it's ever happened to my knowledge. It was a perfectly good evening, with good food and good family. Nothing at all was amiss. Nothing at all, save the fog outside. Leaving the house, my great-grandparents got into their van and ventured into the fog. Grandpa Smoke was driving and great grandmother  was in the passenger seat. My family and I had left a little after them and were at home. They still had a ways to go, in fact, when they hit the horse just a couple streets over. Yes, a horse. Of all the damn things to be in the middle of the road on a foggy Thanksgiving night, it had to be our lazy neighbor's horse who had once again gotten through past the fence. On impact, it went through the windshield and killed my great-grandfather instantly. My great-grandmother survived with only some mild injuries. She survived and lived for a little over another decade. 

I learned all of this at the age of 14, a little under a decade since it happened. My mother's side of the family was too devastated  to even mention it. After trying multiple times as a child, my dad told me not to ask until some time had passed. 

After learning about the events of that night, a horrible thought entered my head and gnawed on the back of my consciousness ever since "What if the last thing he heard was some shitty pop song on the radio?" This man who had devoted his life to the study and practice of classical music: what if the last thing he heard on this mortal earth was N-SYNC? The thought disturbs me to this day.

They're buried together in a church cemetery. On his grave, the words "His Life Was Dedicated to Music" are inscribed: On hers, the words "Her Life Was Devoted to Family."