The time it took for me to experience a new aspect of life. A harsher, bleaker aspect of it. The kind that everyone shys away from unless absolutely necessary, discussed in solemn tones and hushed whispers, or flat, matter-of-fact like voices.
I have always thought it sad how with death comes reminiscence and rumination. The prospect of loss seems to trigger an influx of memories, of good times and bad times. Relatives gathering and talking about the good old days; friends digging out snippets of life previously stored away in memory; personal flashbacks coming in waves.. 'Remember the time when...' I guess it's a way for some to cope. The ironic thing is that these memories make losing the person even more unbearable. Each recount is inexorably layered with a little part of the deceased. Put enough of them together and it seems almost as if the person never really passed on.
But the fact is that he did.
I used to be close to my granddad. I say 'used to' because it means just that. I remember my granddad telling me chinese folklore stories; i remember him , being a history teacher before he retired, recounting historical facts to me; I remember him buying stickers to help me fill my sticker album. The fact is that he played a large part in my childhood. And then I grew up. Slowly but surely, the subtle distancing between us began. I began going out with my friends, playing soccer, leading a conventional teenage life. I still saw him at fairly regular intervals, but I guess we weren't as close as before. Drifted apart would be an apt description; and this pains me the most.
Still, I believe my granddad is in a better place. I believe he accepted Jesus as his personal Lord and Saviour. He is with God now.
