Remember him when he’s gone

Papa we call him, I remember our faces lipped with worry and frustration, but his wore across his body. Our grandad, dad’s father, wasn’t getting better; unable to move, weak, too stubborn to eat and so forth. With his heart 40% working, dad had to go. Racing against the clock, mum packed his suitcase as he hurried to the travel agents to get a ticket. As he left we said goodbye as we held back tears but they came blubbering out.

New Years day he travelled to Pakistan. 2 weeks had passed, dad had to cancel his ticket back and stretch it by another two weeks. Grandad got better then worse then better, it was a rollercoaster. Dad would phone everyday for 2 minutes and then grandad would cry out to him then he’d cut the call off.

It got to 1 month and the call came in. 3:30 in the morning. Mum never shook me to wake me up, she just opened the door as the light from the hallway pulled open my eyelids. “Mariyam, grandad died.” Mum mumbled in between her cries.

Something took ahold of me, it shocked me. Emotions were cold as I sat in shock. My grandad was called Sher Ali, Sher in English means lion. Grandad would sort out problems in the village, all knew of him and were scared of him and his family. My grandad was like a leader, not even a finger was put up at him, he was respected.

This call changed everything. School was next week, it was Sunday, we were going to get our GCSE forms that week. Stating the obvious we left. The motions just kept me going, dad wasn’t here so I had to carry my family. My mums mum and my dad’s dad were brother and sister.

The backstory about my grandad was that he had 2 brothers, 4 sisters: 2 of whom are still alive. We made phone calls and travelled to Pakistan. It wasn’t easy, with 6 children and a grandma, mum managed to take us smoothly. As I collected our luggage, I loaded them onto our trolley and I pushed it outside. There stood my cousin and my uncle.

We met, sat in the van and travelled from Islamabad to our village, a 4 hour drive. I couldn’t speak so I just stared out at the cliffs, the beautiful buildings and stunning views. We reached home, tears slipped down my face as I saw all the ladies from the whole village and relatives from far sit outside under the shade crying. Woman gathered around us sobbing as I got hugged by many. Grandads wife, mam we call her, hugged me as dad hugged me as well. Dad’s two sisters also met me, and one of the brothers met me.

Sleeping was difficult but I slept inbetween the thoughts of not meeting grandad but then remembering where he was. The two last brothers travelled from Italy to here. Meeting them was also difficult as everyone cried again.

3 weeks of emotions passed by. Visiting grandads graveyard everyday in the morning.

The last day back was exhausting, waking up at 3 in the morning felt overwhelming and same when I bided farewell to everyone. A single drop landed on my cheek as I felt the rush of missing out one person to farewell and hug... GRANDAD. My heart felt rosy as I closed my eyes and traced his face out.

When somebody would tell me a significant member of their family or a friend had passed away, I would feel sympathy. But deep inside, my brain would tick tell me that it’s a normal part of life and you can move on. However the fact is that you can’t move on. I couldn’t and I can’t with nearly a month passing. Each situation is a scar but the deepest one can seal up and keep this memory inside of me.

But to reassure myself of the good times, tiny mini clips of an event with grandad in my brain would build me up and I’d just smile. Like how my grandad cared about me, like this one: I was coughing repeatedly and everyone could hear me but never came, my grandad had hearing aids but didn’t like them so he just took them off, so was deaf. From behind, he grabbed his walking stick and sat next to me and tapped my back hard and the cough disappeared.

To realise someone is gone but to have this constant voice in my head telling me, I’ll meet him in Heaven, it brings me happiness because this life is a penny away from Heaven.

The old man had long since forgotten what it felt like to have joints that moved freely without pain. His aches were his constant companion, not friends, but always with him. His memories both warmed and haunted him, sometimes drawing a smile and other times a tear. And time was the thief he always suspected her to be, taking his parents, taking his brothers and sisters. Everybody seems to want to have a long life, but what good is it if your parents are dead, your brothers and sisters of some are dead and your wife sits by your bedside hopefully, whilst praying. Your 4 children live abroad and your two married daughters live in their in laws houses. What is it like then but marking time? He would describe being an old man as like bobbing on an ocean in a boat, not knowing when death will finally come to sever the rope that binds you to the shore. He turns to his grave bidding my dad, my grandmother and my uncle and aunties a bye, and prayers to the two on their way. He bids them goodbye.



A wise man once told me: “Mariyam, be the flower that gives its fragrance to even the hand that crushes it.”

Remember him now he’s gone...❤