My granddad died fourteen years ago in the same week my first son was born. At the interment ceremony at the cemetery, a weird-looking woman on a bike cycled up to me and asked in a panicked tone, “Who died? Who died?” Why she singled me out I have no idea, but having to reply—then seeing her cycle off without a word—was among the most mortifying moments in my life.
He was a kind, charming man who taught me, maybe not a great many things, but a smaller number of things that have come to form part of the core of who I am. In that sense he lives on in me, as we all have a chance to live on in others’ minds. Still, how could I reasonably do anything but wish that more of him still lived on?
Ordinary, predictable loss is no less of a loss for being ordinary and predictable.
Condolences.
My granddad died fourteen years ago in the same week my first son was born. At the interment ceremony at the cemetery, a weird-looking woman on a bike cycled up to me and asked in a panicked tone, “Who died? Who died?” Why she singled me out I have no idea, but having to reply—then seeing her cycle off without a word—was among the most mortifying moments in my life.
He was a kind, charming man who taught me, maybe not a great many things, but a smaller number of things that have come to form part of the core of who I am. In that sense he lives on in me, as we all have a chance to live on in others’ minds. Still, how could I reasonably do anything but wish that more of him still lived on?
Ordinary, predictable loss is no less of a loss for being ordinary and predictable.
Thank you.