Saying goodbye

Today, my family lays my grandpa to rest.

And I won’t be there.

He died in November after suffering a heart attack in August. There were strokes in the week before he passed away. Those left him unable to care for himself. The most ornery and independent man there ever was. My mum is convinced he decided it was his time – that he wouldn’t allow himself to be an invalid – so he drifted away. I think she’s probably right.

The last time I saw him was in August after his heart attack. Pumpkin and I flew out to Oregon to be there. There was little hope of him leaving the hospital then, but he made a surprisingly dramatic recovery and was back home in just a couple of days.

I’ll never forget, standing at the bottom of the stairs next his driveway the day before we flew back to the UK. I gave him a hug and he peeked in the car to say bye to Pumpkin, who was fast asleep. He told me how beautiful she was – and then laughed and asked where she got it from. I told him to take care of himself and that I’d see him at Christmas.

But at Christmas, he wasn’t there.

So much had changed in December. My grandma had moved into a retirement 20 miles away. Their house, near my parents’ sat empty. Lights on a timer to make it looked lived in. It was easy to imagine the two of them still in there when we drove past at night. They would have been sitting in their chairs, watching the television, with the volume turned up far too high. Cats sprawled across the floor.

But my grandpa wasn’t in his chair. He was in a black marble box on a shelf in my aunt’s office. Near the spot where I always stash my handbag and shoes when I visit. I had little chats with him, in his box, during that trip.

And that’s when I said my final goodbyes.

Grandpa lived an eventful life – and that’s just from the things he told us. I can’t begin to imagine the mischief he got into that we don’t know about.

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He was a mayor, a sawmill owner. He was in the navy and served in the South Pacific during WWII. He worked as fabricator and welder, and didn’t retire until just before his 81st birthday.

He sang rude songs about bow-legged women and convinced five-year-old me that his toe had fallen off in a swimming pool.

With my grandma, he travelled to 49 states, Canada and Mexico. They celebrated their 70th wedding anniversary in 2012.

Grandpa’s back in Missouri now. The place where he grew up and raised his family. The place he and my grandma moved away from when I was very young.

I always felt a little like it was because of me that my grandparents moved to California. But, in fact, several of their children had moved to the area. I don’t know what finally spurred them to make the move. I should ask.

But, I also can’t remember a time when they didn’t talk about moving back to “Mizz’ruh”. They never did.

He’s back there now, though.

I wish I could be there today to support my family. But it wasn’t possible to make the journey. I miss him terribly, but funerals are for the living. I should be there for my mum as she says her final goodbyes. That’s what hurts the most, actually. Not being there for her. I know it’s going to be hard.

Mum, I know you read this. Please know I’m there mentally, if not physically.

And, goodbye, Grandpa.