It has been four days since Grampie Tood died.
Four days of casseroles and hugs, stories and old photos, pressing my face against my grandmother's feather-soft cheek, watching my son touch his grandfather's body in the casket - and yet the hard part begins now. The ache burns worse now than it did when I held his hand hours before he stopped breathing, knowing I would not see him alive again, sobbing against his face and ears and telling him things I know he knew wordlessly in a not-so-distant past.
For now begins the new normal of life without dear old Gramps. Our weekly (or twice-weekly) visits to their house will not hold all of the comforting things I have grown to expect and anticipate - my grandmother will still ask Charlie if he had school today, and she will still tell us to come up again, and she will still call my daughter a scamp and tell me stories from fifty years ago. And, oh, I am so grateful for that, for the glint of the demure necklaces she wears, the worn bottoms of her slippers, the way she pats her hair to make sure it is still in place.
But Grampie will not be there. He will not lean forward, expectantly, elbows on knees, as we forge our way unannounced into their living room (but always welcomed) grinning because nothing makes him happier than to see our faces. No longer will I hear him ask where my son got his "pretty shirt" or if my husband is working tonight (answer: yes, because if he wasn't, he wouldn't miss out on a visit). No more awed, hushed comments about the beauty or behaviour of my children (for no one has made me feel like a better parent than my grandfather, who sees no misbehaviour but adores their every turn). No more visits on summer nights when we find him sitting on his step, and see his anticipation at spending an evening with us even before we get out of the car.
I have slowly mourned the loss of other things as he has grown older; his inability to tend a garden, his quick, loping gait reduced to shaky, shuffling steps, and that sort of thing. But I have never allowed myself to imagine life without some form of Grampie in it, for when that thought creeps into my mind, I cannot breathe. I still cannot, and he is gone.
The comforts are many at this time. I know Grampie is waiting for all of us to join him someday in Heaven, and that alone is enough to make my heart leap. I am surrounded by a close-knit family, all of whom adore him as much as I do. We can still visit Nanie and delight in her even if the empty couch causes lumps in our throats. Last but not least, the hundred of memories I can conjure up about Grampie are nothing but happy, for he was a dear, good man.
But right now - this night, four days after he has died - the grief is thick and gluey and I do not want it to be here. I want Grampie to be here. I want to kiss his whiskery cheek one last time and hear him call out "We'll be talkin' to ya, Jone!" and watch him reach out, shakily, to ruffle my son's hair.
Wish you were here, Grampie. Right here.
