I am standing at a train station. Waiting, for I know not what. A train is blurring past. The force of its speed blows tendrils of my hair up and away from my neck. In the windows, I see familiar faces.
Familiar in the sense I know their names, and parts of their history.
And by the looks in their eyes, I know they know mine.
But they are on the train, and I am not.
I am waiting.
Will the train slow down, or will it accelerate out of sight, and I, out of their minds?
I could have been on that train, but I chose not to be. Instead, I went to a far-away land, where I had adventures, and changed.
But I'm back, trying to gauge if I should chance it, and hop on.
Will there be room? Is there any use? I know I'm not staying long. I supposed to get off at the next stop.
Maybe I should I wait for the next train?
Life doesn't give us a timetable.
Friday 11 May 2018
Monday 5 February 2018
It Doesn't Feel Real
I said goodbye to my Grandpa Victor today.
I spoke a tribute and sang a song at the funeral.
Last night, I walked into a funeral home, and saw his face for the last time. The hands were his, but the face? Something was missing. He was missing.
And I am missing him. He was my only grandpa. He was in the picture for all of my life. I had the privilege of being his first grandchild. It's been a week since he left, and I've been overcome with memories. My grandparents were an integral part of my childhood. All day, surrounded by his siblings, children, nieces and nephews, I caught sight of him in their faces, heard his voice in their laughter, and thought, "This doesn't feel real."
Not seeing him last night, not the service, or the limo ride to the cemetery, or touching the urn with his ashes. I keep expecting him to walk through a door. I keep wondering if it's his voice I just heard. His smile is everywhere.
The grief hasn't really hit me yet. This is my first loss, my first goodbye to someone related to me, who's influenced my life. I have his flair for the theatrical, love of music, and curly hair. I love working with my hands. My grandpa was a quiet man, but he loved spending time with those he loved. My childhood brims with memories of bike rides, picnics, kite flying, gardening, and watching him in his workshop, bringing shapes and furniture out of blocks of wood.
Many lovely things were said about him today. I feel I know him better after hearing the stories his family shared, and seeing pictures of days gone by.
I don't know what to do now. I don't know when the haze will clear, and I'll see he isn't there.
The loss of him has created a lostness in me, which I think will fuel me to love my family more.
Thank-you, my community, for the love and care you've shown my family. It does not go unnoticed.
In closing, I leave my favorite memory, which I shared at the funeral:
I spoke a tribute and sang a song at the funeral.
Last night, I walked into a funeral home, and saw his face for the last time. The hands were his, but the face? Something was missing. He was missing.
And I am missing him. He was my only grandpa. He was in the picture for all of my life. I had the privilege of being his first grandchild. It's been a week since he left, and I've been overcome with memories. My grandparents were an integral part of my childhood. All day, surrounded by his siblings, children, nieces and nephews, I caught sight of him in their faces, heard his voice in their laughter, and thought, "This doesn't feel real."
Not seeing him last night, not the service, or the limo ride to the cemetery, or touching the urn with his ashes. I keep expecting him to walk through a door. I keep wondering if it's his voice I just heard. His smile is everywhere.
The grief hasn't really hit me yet. This is my first loss, my first goodbye to someone related to me, who's influenced my life. I have his flair for the theatrical, love of music, and curly hair. I love working with my hands. My grandpa was a quiet man, but he loved spending time with those he loved. My childhood brims with memories of bike rides, picnics, kite flying, gardening, and watching him in his workshop, bringing shapes and furniture out of blocks of wood.
Many lovely things were said about him today. I feel I know him better after hearing the stories his family shared, and seeing pictures of days gone by.
I don't know what to do now. I don't know when the haze will clear, and I'll see he isn't there.
The loss of him has created a lostness in me, which I think will fuel me to love my family more.
Thank-you, my community, for the love and care you've shown my family. It does not go unnoticed.
In closing, I leave my favorite memory, which I shared at the funeral:
One of my clearest, most vivid memories of Grandpa is of when I four.
It was an October morning, and I awoke to Grandpa excitedly calling my name. “Esther, Esther, get dressed, and put your shoes on!” Still groggy from sleep, I stumbled into my clothes, and was helped into my shoes. He flung open the front screen door, and took my hand. The world had been transformed into a mysterious sparkling white wilderness. The diamond shell crunched under my feet. “Esther, it snowed!” His excitement ignited my curiosity, and I explored the yard, leaving trails of footprints. More snow meant learning the magic of gathering up the white fluff in my mittened hands, shaping into a ball, and delighting when I hit my target-often unsuspecting grandpa.
Then, wonder of wonders. A ball not meant to be thrown, but rolled along the ground, gaining girth. And another, till it was triple stacked. Snow-man. Next, the frantic raiding of refrigerator and closet, in search of clothing for our creation.
A photo snapped. Esther and grandpa, beside their snowman.
Grandpa, from building snowmen, to working in the garden, you taught me how to work with my hands, but more than that, how to see the wonder in everyday tasks. Something I have never forgotten. Thank you for being present in my life, and being the best, and my favorite grandpa. In my 22 years of life, every single memory of you is a good one. I think that’s an amazing legacy. I love you.
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