The last goodbye

A call, an accident, my grandpa had been hit by a car whilst riding his bike. He hit his head and was bleeding heavily. "It's nothing," assured mom. "Head wounds bleed a lot. People get worried. That's all." Denial, a vigorous old man couldn't die, but he did, two hours later. Mom cried and cried. I stood there, silent. Reality lost its substance. I was watching a movie about a girl who had just lost her grandpa. I felt detached; I didn't cry. I half-expected to find my grandpa at his home.

I have no recollection of packing, getting into the car, traveling, but I must have done that, for I could not just appear 400 km (248 miles) away. No school, my grandpa died in January, time of the summer holiday. No work, you get days-off when a close relative dies. I know dad was driving, mom at his side, I behind my father, and my sister behind my mother. Our places in the car haven't changed; they have been the same for more than three decades.

The trip, the meals, the place where we slept, I can't remember. Standing beside my grandpa's coffin, I watched the people coming to offer us condolences. Many unknown faces paraded before me. I have lived most of my life far away; thus, even my closest relatives were strangers for me. We had moved back to my family's roots two years before. We had moved from a land where the day-length changed little over the year, where the summer was hot and the winter non-existent; to a land where the summer days were long, where the ground got covered with frost in the coldest winter mornings. Strangers they were to me, both the people and the land.

"Mom, why are there so many people here?" I couldn't see my own face, but I must have been staring wide-eyed at those strangers coming and going.

"Your grandpa was principal of a school for many years; he was minister of the Lutheran Church; he was in the Rotary Club; he knew a lot of people, important people." I felt stupid for not making this connection, but my mom's answer gave me a pleasing sensation into my chest: My grandpa wasn't a nobody; people cared about him.

Tears fell from many eyes, but mine remained dry. Didn't I love my grandpa? I wanted to cry; the lack of tears annoyed me. What would the others think of me? Now I know why. His death hadn't sunk in; I wasn't actually there; everything was like a play. His pale serene face could have been made of wax.

The coffin was closed and carried away. Finally, the moment the coffin entered the drawer; tears dropped from my eyes. For a long time, whenever I visited my grandma, someone was missing. He will always be missing.