Réal Goyette

I’ve been delaying writing this, for a variety of stupid reasons, as stupid as the reasons that kept me from seeing him days, weeks and months before his death.
So, here it is, from the heart, all sarcasm aside, pour toi grand-papa.
Dedicated to Mamie, Maman, mes matantes, steph, james and dad and all mes cousins et cousines.
by Roxane Hudon

Death is a strange thing. It takes you through different waves. Shock, regret, nostalgia, that unexplainable sense of loss, of losing someone important, that can’t be replaced, that will never come back, to find a way to deal with that sudden emptiness, where there was warmth, laughter and comfort, now there’s just a hole, nothing.
Movies and music will tell you that you can’t take anything for granted, that you must live for today, make every moment count. Life is fragile and so on. It’s a corny idea, easily forgotten, pushed aside. You gotta work. “I can’t, I’m working.” And it passes you by.

Five years ago, my grandfather was diagnosed with cancer. A disease hard enough to beat in your 20s or 40s, in your 70s, it becomes harder to fight, or to believe you can. At the beginning of the last week of August, my mom called me to tell me he had been transferred to palliative care. I had backed out of visiting him two weeks earlier. I had to work. I told her I would visit him with her during the week. But still, it didn’t really register.
I woke up August 27th to see that I had missed a call from my sister at 5 a.m. A few hours earlier, with his five daughters around him and his wife, on the day of their  55th wedding anniversary, he had left us.
Quiet shock, at first. Trying to remember who he was, his face, the last time I saw him. The realisation that he was gone made it somehow harder to remember. I worried. My mom has worked hard her entire life and it doesn’t stop. And now, her father was gone. She was serene, but sad, and somehow managed to reassure me. How mothers can be so selfless sometimes, I don’t even know.

Family is a strange thing. I couldn’t remember him. I hadn’t seen my grandparents in a long time. I felt distanced. He didn’t know the person I was now. Maybe through bits and pieces. Yet, so much came from him. His love for music ( a clarinet player and a real jazz man) and his sense of humour. I wasn’t the first in this family to make fun of everyone and everything. You can’t really mess with us. But still, how do you grieve for someone who had already become a little bit of a memory.

At the funeral, I sat next to my mom. For the first time in years, almost the entire family was there. A mini reunion just for him. His photo was one of him full and healthy, the grandfather I remembered. My aunt sang the Moonlight Serenade over a recording of him playing the clarinet. My sister walked up to read a text written by my cousin. I don’t know if it was the exact words, maybe the description of him in his rocking chair. It was the memories not of a wife or a daughter, but of a grandchild. He was always in that rocking chair. The boat rides. His laugh. His big band hits. And I remembered.

After the service, we sat in a neon-lit, white room, drank wine and ate the depressing type of food that’s acceptable for funerals, you know, egg sandwiches on white bread and weird pasta salad. I sat talking with my sister and one of my cousins, who has two kids now. We joked about how it was like the old times and we could be going to play in the park any minute now. We swapped stories and laughed. And said how fast it all went by. And how weird it was to see my grandmother, without him.

Sometimes, it feels like everything is against you and it’ll never stop. Death always seems to bring up questions about spirituality. It’s hard to believe that the person is just gone. Sometimes, it feels like nothing can go right. Like you’re drowning. And it’s impossible to see any exit, or imagine the positive side. When we walked out of that stuffy church, two men carried my grandfather’s ashes, my grandmother walked behind with two of her daughters and I followed beside my mom and my siblings. They opened the doors and it was suddenly sunny and a fresh wind breezed through. I’m not a religious person, I’m not a spiritual person, but in that moment, I can’t explain it, but I felt him. Maybe it was just the wind, or maybe it was a just little bit of hope pushing us on. Sometimes, you just have to find it in the tiniest places and hold on. Chin up, he said.

I’m not making any silly jokes or mocking the world. This is for my family. This is for you. Because, all I have now is childhood memories. For all the times I said I couldn’t make it, to spend this afternoon with you, as a semi-grown up, sitting here, listening to your favourite songs and sharing these words with you, because I never did it before. Merci, je t’aime.

I heard this one was your favourite.