Funeral

Even on the morning of my Grandpa's funeral, I was still surprised at how well I was coping. Unlike other bereavements in the family, Grandpa died old, his suffering was short-lived and he left no widow. The day of the funeral was bright and blue. We were at Grandpa's house, excited to meet all of the family in the sun and in our Sunday's best.

...Then that wooden box came rolling up the road. It could have been empty, at first glance. But I soon noticed the shadow it had cast, and I quickly realised that the wooden box was much heavier than empty. My Grandpa is right behind those wooden panels! I felt as if I had just realised he isn't coming back. Like I had to see it to believe it.

We drove straight to the cemetery. The colours of our Sunday's best appeared much deeper, now. I was choked by my own collar and tie. For me, the hardest part was leaving after the service. I watched my Grandpa's four daughters say their ultimate goodbyes to him. Bow in respect or blow a kiss. I couldn't begin to imagine a suitably sufficient way to say goodbye as I turned to leave him for the last time.

Four daughters, seven grand-children and beyond, all exist because of him. Because he met his to-be wife on a train all those years ago. That simple flap of a butterfly's wings. An essential stepping-stone to my golden ticket to this world; my life; my everything. But, anyway, this isn't about me. This is about my Grandpa. Rest in peace.