Grandpa's Last Gift

When my grandfather died, I remember my family and I only having the rest of that sorrowful evening to lament his loss before having to appear composed and proper for his funeral service the following day. I’m still not entirely sure how we managed it, but we did. I could say the same about any number of circumstances that have occurred throughout my life.

“You must chin up and carry onwards, dear Victoria,” my dad would always say. “The sorrows of life will not wait for you.”  

I wasn't sure if I had the heart to do what was expected of me, if I could handle such a thing. The only thing I knew for certain is that everyone was bound to find out one way or the other.

On that bleak autumn morning, all of the inhabitants of Delilah packed themselves into the confines of the old Westwood Church to honor his memory. How old or sickly they may have been was of little consequence to anyone involved. The news of his death travelled swiftly, and they were all drawn to the service to pay their respects, as was tradition in the old mining town.  

Tradition was important there.  

It was everything. 

‘Standing room only’ wasn’t an adequate enough expression to really justify it. Those people were literally crammed in that dilapidated church, sitting shoulder to shoulder like sardines in a can. There was barely enough room for the four rows of wooden pews, their red velvet-lined seats were completely obfuscated by the mass of black garbed mourners.  

Dressed in our Sunday finest, my dad, my brother and I were corralled up at the front of the church next to the gleaming oak coffin. Across the room from us on a raised partition sat a worn oak pulpit.  

We were completely trapped in our positions, unable to get away for even the briefest of moments, not even to get to the bathroom because of the sheer wall of bodies. 

 It really made the experience all the more delightful. 

The creak of the old wobbly ceiling fan echoed throughout the church, which was as silent as the grave, save for the various coughs and quiet groans from the ancient wooden floor as it shifted beneath the weight of the mourners.  

I kept looking around, anywhere and everywhere except for inside of that coffin. I’m not entirely sure why, but there was something just so wrong to me about how Grandpa Cliff looked in there. He was so rigid, so very pale. Even his hands, which were clasped around the small silver dagger resting on his chest, looked as if they were unnaturally contorted into that position. It genuinely looked as if they were made of some kind of wax instead of flesh and bone.  

The small smile the mortician saw fit to add to his lips after stitching them shut was just the cherry on top of the uncanny sundae. 

Little Griffin’s eyes were darting around everywhere as well, though his head was focused straight ahead. 

I couldn’t help but find a small amount of solace in the fact that at least it wasn’t just me who felt uncomfortable. 

I kept shuffling back and forth on my aching feet in a vain attempt to take some of the pressure off of them. High heels were clearly a poor choice, no matter how good they looked with my outfit.  

Looking back on it, it wasn’t really worth the discomfort.

To be completely honest, my dad didn’t seem that much more comfortable than I was. The small vein that always seemed to raise up in the recesses of his dark hairline whenever he was stressed had already made its appearance, popping up when we’d arrived at the church a few hours earlier. He pursed his lips and sighed quietly to himself as he rocked back and forth on the heels of his dusty dress shoes. 

Dad’s arms were locked by his sides, he honestly looked about as rigid as Grandpa Cliff. The edge of his thumb repeatedly traced the sharp corners from the pack of Camel cigarettes he kept in his front pocket. He flicked his steely gaze towards me and my brother, and his eyes softened somewhat.

Maybe he had found that same solace, that sense of schadenfreude with me that I had with Griffin earlier. If that were the case, I wouldn’t have minded too much, I would’ve been happy that he found any sort of consolation at all. It hadn’t been the easiest two years, especially after Mom died.  

And there we were, in the same church, in the same spots, listening to the same preacher begin the nearly exact sermon on death and resurrection, while we all refused to acknowledge that dead family member that laid only a few feet away from us. The only major difference between the services were that instead of standing on my right with a comforting hand on my shoulder, Grandpa was quietly lying in the ‘place of honor’.   

Talk about déjà vu.   

The little old man, who had been the preacher at Westwood Church ever since my dad had been a child, was more ear hair than human being at this stage in his life. In stark contrast to his swathes of ear hair, the top of his wrinkled head was as bald and round as an egg. It gleamed brightly beneath the incandescent bulbs hanging from above, so much so that one would have been forgiven if they mistook the glare for some rowdy spirit assuming control of him mid-sermon.  

He prattled on with his sermon for what seemed like an eternity, his high-pitched screech of a voice used Grandpa’s death as a launching pad against any and all who would defy the almighty Goddess and all of Her ethereal wisdom. 

Everyone in attendance had begun chanting in unison as the old preacher began singing his hymns and dirges about freeing the spirit of my grandfather so that he could transcend into the next world. Though I’ve heard them a thousand times, they admittedly brought me more comfort than I had expected.  

Despite the stifling heat produced by the sheer amount of bodies in the room, a chill had started forming in the air. I shivered slightly, but I tried not to let my discomfort show too much, there was still the Offering to contend with after the burial, and I didn’t want to be seen as an unworthy successor.

I felt my brother’s clammy hand take mine, and I looked down at him and smiled.  

It was easy to forget this was only his second time attending a funeral, and he was far too young to really remember our mother's, though it wouldn't have been an adequate comparison in any case. Neither of us had participated in her ceremony, and that cold sort of feeling just wasn't present there.

Plus, he wasn’t used to the traditions of Delilah any more than most regular folk, but unlike those who lived outside of the borders of her township, he would learn.   

As the old preacher shrieked the conclusion of his final hymn, he produced his small, silver dagger and slowly thrusted it skywards, towards the matte white ceiling.  

“Children of the Western Wood, rise and anoint the fallen!” he screeched.   

Everyone in the pews rose together, pulling their pointed black hoods over their foreheads as they began unsheathing their own daggers.   

I reached back to the ceremonial hood that I had affixed to the nape of my dress and pulled mine over as well. Griffin struggled to get purchase on his, reaching back and clumsily pinching his fingers together unsuccessfully at the slick black fabric. Ever the dutiful sister, I leaned over and quickly helped him get situated, adjusting the cowl so that it wouldn’t slump over his face.  

My dad beamed with pride beneath his own hood as he looked on. He wasn’t the most verbal of parents, but that was okay. It wasn’t hard to discern that he really cared. I looked up to him and smiled as we withdrew our silver daggers, it was with his strength that I was finally able cast aside my somber feelings and really participate in the anointing, as was intended.  

Dad nodded in approval as Griffin and I descended on Grandpa Cliff’s body, our daggers cutting deep so that his soul could be freed from the confines of the dead vessel. Dad’s expression barely changed as little flecks of blood splattered across his stoic face.

****

I'm still not sure who was the recipient of Grandpa's soul that day. I have my suspicions, but I try put them out of my mind. It makes it easier to treat everyone in Delilah with respect if there's the possibility that they're now his vessel, testing me, challenging me to do better, to be a better person. So I just appreciate the positive changes that I've noticed with my family, and the change I've felt in myself as well, and I like to think maybe him and my mom had a hand in it.

Grandpa would’ve been so proud of us.

I'm so proud of us.