Farewell, Grampie Tood

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.

Loons

I caught sight of the shadowy form of myself in the mirror - long neck, hair coming down from its bun, round little baby head weaving about on my shoulder - and sighed.  I was holding my 1-year-old before bed, soothing her in room, lit by the dim tones of her frog night-light, and recalling the pangs of despair I felt earlier when I contemplated what life was like before our children came along. 

It was easy.

I remember the first day of fishing season, 2005.  There was still plenty of snow on the ground, but my husband and I didn't mind.  We drove to the convenience store and paid for our fishing licenses and bought junk food.  At home, we packed our snacks and the worms dug from my FIL's earthy garden and our fishing rods, donned our lined rubber boots, and headed out through the woods.  We weaved through trees, crossed powerlines, and slipped down an old road in the woods.  We came to the top of a ravine, and - there! - the stream below snaked along, burbling its hello.  I took a photo of us by the water's edge, snow around us, winter coats on, fishing rods in hand.  We fished and laughed and talked.  A nibble here and there - the trout weren't terribly bitish, and we'd had better, more memorable fishing trips, but this is the one that stands out in my mind tonight.  I suspect we came home, took a nap, ate sandwiches and chips, and went for a long, meandering drive through the rural back roads my husband grew up exploring.

It is soon to be the first day of fishing season.  We will head to the same stream, but our 5-year-old son will carry the tackle box. I'll carry the fishing rods, and my husband will have the baby strapped onto his back.  We will fish for 30 minutes while our son chucks rocks into the water and the baby squirms and shouts nonsense and grabs at branches.  We'll go home, exhausted from our short adventure (it's harder climbing that ravine with a 59-pound kid on your back, you know), and remove muddied pants and nurse cranky babies and stand, dumbfounded, while looking into the fridge, wondering what on earth to throw together for a well-balanced dinner.

I hardly remember what it was like to have time that was our own.  Today, my husband and I did not spontaneously take off for the border to get some cheap groceries and detour off to the closed mines.  We didn't drive 2.5 hours to a lake and camp out on the shore, listening to the loons at 3am and shivering with delight.  My husband scrubbed at the counters while I dressed the kids and took them to playgroup.  I fixed the eldest a sandwich after I put the baby down for a nap.  The headache that throbbed behind my eyes was not sated by a 30 minute nap.  We entertained some friends while my husband ran errands and tried to fix his chainsaw.  I made supper while the baby carried clean utensils all over my house and my husband got ready for work.  After he left, we visited my grandparents and came home and that was when I sighed, because I still had to put the other kid to bed and clean the kitchen and exercise and finish stripping the cloth diapers.

But my son just emerged from the bathroom, toothbrush in hand, and said, "Mom, what is the name of that bus in "Convoy"?  I mean, what kind is it?"

"It's a chartreuse microbus."

"YES!  That's it!"  He turned on his heel, murmuring the lyrics under his breath, one hand in his mouth wiggling his loose tooth. 

I told my grandparents about the loons tonight, but they barely listened, for they were smitten with my children.  I think they have forgotten the ache one has for the sound of the loons, but they reminded me of the delicious ache of being somebody's answer.