Unhurried
When I was eight, my grandfather passed away. He had fallen on the slippery bathroom floor and was taken immediately to the hospital. My cousins and I were blissfully unaware of the seriousness of his condition because day after day, our parents assured us that he was fine.
It wasn’t until the adults decided to move my grandfather home from the hospital did I see how truly close to death he was. His skin was stretched taut, a fine white-ash with tiny wisps of wrinkles. Like thin calligraphy strokes, his eyes squeezed shut, spelling the pain of his weakened body. Even after seeing the state that he was in, I did not believe that he was going to die. I was eight, young and invincible. The world was just and fair, and I knew that my grandfather was never going to die.
His final words to me were, “Be good. Listen to your mother.” I gave him a kiss on the cheek, and left his bedroom. I still believed that my grandfather was going to live.
His death brushed past me like the clothes on my skin; I could not grasp the concept of “gone.”
My grandfather’s funeral was a grand weeklong event. The adults moved my cousins and I into my grandparents’ house for the funeral. In the daytime, my cousins and I put on solemn faces to greet mourners who had come to honor my grandfather. But at night, it was a big slumber party. We played silly games and stayed up late, making up ghost stories but stopping before they got too scary. We dared not evoke the memory of our grandfather for fear that his ghost would come visiting. Somehow, I had convinced myself to fast forward the memory of my grandfather from alive to untouchable ghost. There was no time for me to mourn because I was having too much fun with my cousins.
On the seventh and final day of the funeral, my family prepared my grandfather for cremation. They stuffed fancy clothing and precious family artifacts on the sides of his coffin. I suppose it was necessary for his journey, but I thought my grandfather looked uncomfortable.
I peered into his coffin, half-expecting my grandfather to open his eyes and say, “It’s okay, everyone!” But he didn’t, and all I could think was, “Last chance, Grandpa. Come on.”
I felt like I was watching a pen fall, slow motion, to the ground. And when it hit the cold cement, there was a loud clang, a jolt of reality: My grandfather was dead. Once the tears came, I could not stop them. Sobbing and gulping for air like an idiot, I clung to the side of the coffin, regretting every ghost story ever told and every shove-aside I gave to my memories of him.
My mother pulled me close to her and hugged me tight. It looked like she was comforting me, but she was really trying to muffle my wailing. Finally, she pulled me into the kitchen, gave me a glass of water, and left me.
My first encounter with death and it was dealt with a glass of water. I drank the water slowly, unhurried and calm. Looking within myself, I made sure not to rush past the important details of my grandfather’s life. Instead, I rested my head into my open palms and cried, mourning for the loss of my beloved grandfather.
Written by Dene