Loss Doesn’t Get Easier
Accepting death as a part of life doesn’t mean we grieve any less.
I was about seven years old when my maternal grandfather (Grampy) died. It was a weekend, as I recall, though all I remember for sure is that it wasn’t a school day.
Lumbering up the stairs from my basement bedroom looking forward to whatever breakfast mother had prepared, I found mom and dad talking in the kitchen about something serious. They stopped talking as soon as they saw me standing there in my pajamas, the last night’s sleep still in my eyes.
Mom walked over to me and told me that she had to leave for a few days. She was going back to Massachusetts for a while. “Can I come too?” I asked excitedly. Grammy and Grampy were in Massachusetts, and long walks on the beach not far from their home, and lobster and fried clams fresh out of the ocean.
We had only just moved out west a couple of years prior, and I had never stopped missing my grandparents. All four of them lived within fifteen minutes or so of each other, but I was particularly close to my mother’s family.
“No, I’m sorry, not this time,” my mother responded. “You see, Grampy died this morning, so I am going back to help grammy and for the funeral.” Sensing my disappointment she quickly added, “this won’t be a fun trip.”
