Goodbye, Grandma

Goodbye. That’s what I have to say. But the word is stuck in my throat. I know I must say it. It is time to say goodbye. She is gone now, resting in peaceful slumber. She is gone now, all the pain and worries of life washed away like the rain. She is gone now, to be with her dear friend, God. He will keep her safe and happy, in a kingdom of kindness and love and music. Until we meet again. But for now, it is time to say goodbye.

That’s what I whisper to myself as the hearse draws up to the chapel. The black car approaches the glass doors slowly, with its long dark shadow falling over the church. I’ve seen them before. At University, we lived across the road from a funeral house. And a hospital next door. I remember with a strange smile. The hearses used to drive past all the time in reverent silence, barely a hum of an engine to disturb the rest of the dead. It always made me sad, wondering who had died and if their families were alright. And now I am one of those families. And now one hearse will gently carry my grandmother to her last resting place.

The coffin slowly rolls its way down the aisle. A sob threatens to tear me apart. As I think of the woman I used to know, tucked away in a long box with its angular head. In olden days, people stole riches from coffins, lifting tombs from the earth in the night. But with the angular heads, they couldn’t lift it as well and struggled to steal. The old history fact she once told me floats to the surface of my mind as it approaches. I don’t remember when it was. Or what project it was for. All I remember is her teaching me it, patiently nurturing me and encouraging me to learn more. I know we will never do that again.

It is time to say goodbye. I don’t want to. My heart aches. I think of all the times we said goodbye, the close hugs and whispers after long days. But this time, she won’t walk back through the door for one more embrace. For now, she is in the embrace of God.

.I try to breathe as I think of life and death and wooden boxes, of the fragility of life. I have to think of something else. Anything else. My mother is already crying. I will try to be brave. The vicar was my grandmother’s friend. If he can be brave, so can I.

Goodbye. It’s a strange word. It’s an old word, a linguistic contraction from the 16^th century. It was god be with ye, in its full form, a blessing to ensure a safe return of a friend. I remember once telling her all about it, talking about words and books at Christmas one year, when I started that module at university. She had been so excited, as we chattered about the evolution of dialects of Wales and Merseyside, the places she once called home.

God be with ye. I can’t think of a better word to sum up a woman full of faith and love. I know that she is with the God she loves now, on a sandy shore. For all I know, she’s talking to him about how best to run Heaven, organizing angels and harps as she once organized vergers and ministers. I smile at that thought. Perhaps God smiles too.

I know I shouldn’t smile, surrounded by sadness and tears. But I can’t help it. I don’t see the box and the bones that stand by the curtain. I see the grandmother I knew, a woman who always used to love telling stories. A woman who was always kind to whoever she met. There was always room for one more at her table, always room for one more friend in her heart. There was always room for one more in her church, her little family of religion and music seeming to grow larger every year. They are here with her now, in her final moments, even if it is through a camera.

A woman who loved music most of all, in whatever shape it came in. Choral was her favorite. She used to love seeing me sing in the church choir when she came down for Christmas. She loved all sorts; classical, jazz, choral, instrumental, Nat King Cole. She always attended my concerts, proud of me and my clarinet. I swallow as I realize that when we eventually do another Christmas concert, she won’t be there. But I know she will be listening from far away.

And when I practice, I will think of her. I know that I cannot reach her. For she is far away, on that white shore Tolkien once spoke of in beautiful words. But perhaps my music can echo in places I cannot reach, notes soaring on the air and across the sea. I hope so. It is all I can do. For I cannot raise the dead from their slumber. I cannot say the right words. I cannot even cry. But I can play my music with all my heart. And hope she hears it.

A woman who loved dancing, always proud of me and my attempts at ballet. We always talked about it at Christmas, me showing her my medals and shoes and new beautiful tutus. She used to say that her old bones couldn’t twirl and spin anymore, but I could do it for her. And I know, when I will be dancing with my friends again with a drink in my hand and music flowing through my soul, I will think of her. And I know that soon she will find her Eric and dance with him as she once did in ballrooms long ago, and fall in love with him all over again.

Amazing Grace resounds as her coffin draws up the aisle, seated on a stand with a red plush cushion. The music is the only sound that echoes, the soft sapphire carpet hushing voices and footsteps in reverent respect. The coffin bearers take the stand away, leaving the coffin beside the silver curtain. Her box stands there, next to the organ she loved to play every Sunday. The seat looks empty without her. As if it too mourns a friend that used to play notes of heavenly gold. The coffin bearers silently walk away, as quiet as the grave.

My feet stumble into the pew, my eyes not seeing the edge of the uncomfortable seat. The vicar begins to speak, spreading kind words as if they were butter. His blue eyes twinkle with tears, his long white beard making him look like a wizard. As he speaks of his old friend, of hopes and prayers that try to soothe our aching hearts. Even though our hearts have already been broken, a glass knife splintering inside our chests. I can already feel the sadness and numbness creeping into my soul.

The half an hour seems to span an entirety as we listen to prayers and eulogies from far away friends. It was as if time was frozen. As if even time had stopped its clocks in mourning, refusing to pass to the next hour until the hearse had finally gone.

I think of all the times we had together as my uncle tells her final story. The wondrous tale of her life, full of adventure and hardship and love. Until the vicar stand behind the lectern again, the music resounds, Nat King Cole crooning from nearby. Her coffin slides into the curtain. Goodbye, I whisper,my voice barely audible. But I think she hears it anyway, as I let her go. 

We sit there for a while, not wanting to move. If we stand up, it is over. It is real. Nat King Cole continues to echo as he sings of love. The song ends. Silence reigns. It is time to say goodbye. My mother takes one look back as we leave, tears streaming down her face. I take her arm as we walk away. I can’t look back. If I do, it will break my heart even more.

The bright sun blinds me as the gravel crunches under my feet, ambling past flowers as colorful as the dresses my grandmother used to wear. We stand in a small wooden pavilion, looking out at the memorial garden full of peaceful trees and trickling waters and singing birds. The undertakers tall hat bobs in the breeze, his long coat that must be too hot in the June sunshine. He speaks of envelopes and Zoom and recording services. I talk as best I can, finding the words my mother seems to have left in the church.

The vicar’s tabard flutters in the breeze as he talks of adventures to Israel and laughter he once had with his dear friend. The white crosses daubed on the tabard shine against the fabric that is as blue as the sky above. It’s a lovely day. The sun is shining. Barely a cloud in sight. The wind caresses us, gently kissing our heads.

The hearse returns. It is time to say goodbye. We watch as it drives away into the horizon, taking my grandmother on one final adventure.