15 years later, you’re finally reunited with Gran.

When your grandparents are very old, you expect the inevitable but you still, somehow, don’t see it coming. You think that you can’t feel grief as strongly again since you’ve already gone through it once before, but here we are.

Grandad was a staple in my life. You knew you’d always see him every Saturday at church and later on when his energy depleted, you knew he was always there. He’d always be waiting, sat in his armchair by the window with a John Wayne film on the TV.

Grandad was convinced I was still in school long after I finished school, but as soon as I moved to Spain he knew. I never thought that the random weekend I came home in February would be the last time I would see him. He would have been 93 on Friday. Mum had planned for us to have dinner with him.

He always made me laugh. When I was little he had an infinite supply of random rhymes and he would never fail to catch me when I walked along the high walls outside church. As he got older he would still make me chuckle when he kept describing himself as a vegetable because he could do so little, but he always had a smile and a hug for me. He was dedicated to the vegetables in the back garden like I am dedicated to nap time, we always got plenty of green beans.

His hands may have shaken, and his hearing wasn’t the best, but he had a strength in him that you could only admire. He walked for as long as he could, and he wouldn’t accept help unless he really needed it. He could always climb the stairs.

He always told me to look after myself and to be good, and I’m trying, Grandad, I’m trying my best. You may have silently left while I’m still here in Spain, but I will never forget you.

 

 

 

 

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