Birthday - Deathday

Had my Grandpa K’s name in the calendar today and assumed it was his birthday, but it was his death day. Three years ago he died, still very full of life and mentally together but cancer. 

His funeral was the best I've ever been to (I've been to a lot, unfortunately), the kind of funeral we all hope to have: there was no MC only family and friends speaking. Everyone told tales of what a warm and funny person he was, and loving. Photos of him smiling and travelling the world up on the screen, I got to read a poem - Happy the Man by John Dryden. Well selected, I thought, and later I learned K had a lifelong love of poetry. I learnt a lot about him that day and some of it was eerie. There were mannerisms and opinions we shared without ever knowing. There was the love of poetry and words and travel we both had. Why didn't I know any of this?! I cried hard that day and the days after thinking of the relationship we could have had. In some ways I felt robbed of a kinship connection.

As a kid I couldn't help this, you can only hang out with who your parents allow you to see. As an adult, I could have made a better attempt to forge a relationship. But by adulthood, I believed without thinking all the things I'd been told: that this man was uncaring, distant, even cruel. That he didn't want me around, that I was only ever invited to things by proxy to my parents. Looking back, I don't know why I believed these things, and at times I did suspect otherwise because I never experienced K being cold or cruel in any way. But it was an ingrained message. I was raised on rejection and allowed it to permeate my perception. As self-preservation, I kept clear of anyone who might reject me. This sadly included K.

After he died, his widow brought around some of his things. A Robert Louis Stevenson book he won in fourth grade, plaques and medals he'd received through an acclaimed career, a wooden stool his father had hand-crafted since lovingly cared for, and piles or poetry in books and print-outs. She handed me a usb where she had organised photos and his diary entries. There were audio files too and I was absolutely fucking delighted to hear my Grandpa K and his friends reading out their favourite poems, encouraging each other and laughing in between. They had paid to get themselves professionally recorded. I love this so much.

Yes, I have regrets I didn't get to know my Grandpa sooner, but there were other things I had to work through first. By the time he died we went regularly to the cricket. Test cricket of course. Long days sitting side by side, we'd bring packed lunches and drink tea instead of beer. When he was in cancer treatments I made the effort to visit more regularly, to bring my kid, and talk for the first time without the influence of my parents. Conversation flowed easily. He seemed to love a good story and I had a few. So did he.

So, cheers Grandpa K. Sorry we didn't have more time together but I'm glad to be a part of you and glad to know there was someone else to hare my traits and interests.