My grandfather, Bill (I call him Pappa), died last week, and his funeral was Saturday. I wanted to come up with something meaningful to post regarding this, but sometimes it's hard to come up with meaning for such an event, even after thinking through every detail. These things happen, and leave you a little numb, a little wounded, but also a little relieved.
Witnessing the death of my grandmother has made this sort of thing easier, but not easy. I didn't watch Pappa die like that. I was lucky enough to see his deterioration in blips. A visit here, a photo texted from my mom there. So it was odd to try to remember the last words we exchanged. I did say goodbye, and that I loved him. I remember him saying, "I wanted to lose weight, but not like this."
I remember things further back as well. I remember him cackling in his low voice and turning the cold arch of water from the garden house on me. I remember feeding the dogs treats with him out in his barn, surrounded by tools and gloves and spare parts for machines unknown. I remember when he handed me a scythe and turned me loose in the woods to carve a walking path. I loved swinging that scythe. My winding trails are still there, but the woods feel like less of a jungle and more of a cemetery now.
I remember sitting in the dark living room with my younger brother on Christmas night almost four years ago. We listened to Pappa as he explained splitting phone lines and laying cable. He was sitting next to my grandmother's body. The paramedics weren't there yet, and the rest of the family was in the barn, smoking, shielding themselves from the pain of the loss in shifts. Pappa was different after that. We were all different after that.
The funeral itself was a little iffy. The pastor didn't really know him, which made the sermon stale and disconnected. Which was fine by me. I don't like to cry in public (although I'm very good at it). What we did after the funeral was better. We grilled meat and drank whiskey and laughed around a bonfire.
That was the true ceremony. No cold, boxed words spoken by a stranger under the rose-hued lights of a funeral parlor. What we had was authentic. A last raucous get-together out by the barn. Hugs. Jokes. Passing around a bottle. Talking truth. My grandparents would have approved. In the darkness, you could almost see them sitting in the shadows across the fire, bundled in sweatshirts and work boots against the autumn chill, smiling.
It's hard to say goodbye to them and their home. The place and the people are tied together eternally in my mind. So I won't say goodbye. I just have to close that door and be satisfied by the summers spent in their company. The past is not lost in the death of loved ones or the sale of their possessions. It's just as real as before, and it's a history to be shared over countless fires to come.