The morning my grandpa died, I was complaining about how frizzy my hair was. The morning my grandpa died, I was exhausted and dreading how late my night was going to be. The morning my grandpa died was normal.
I was sitting in my vanity chair, staring too hard into the mirror while dotting on a little concealer, when my father walked in. I expected a “good morning!” or at least a slightly frustrated reminder to turn my heater off when I woke up. Instead, he called my little brother into the room and gazed solemnly into the mirror as he broke the news I never wanted to believe: my grandpa was gone.
Suddenly, death became real. It was no longer the climax of a fictional movie that made me shed a couple of tears, but an actual event that forced me to remove my already running mascara. It is a bewildering concept: someone’s soul simply leaves the earth when a force — that exists beyond my comprehension — decides it’s their time.
Half an hour later, I went downstairs into my grandpa’s bedroom. It was the strangest sensation to wander through the unchanged walls of our house, knowing we would never again discuss the book he was reading, which still bathed in the living room sunlight.
It may have been even stranger to see him before his cremation. He looked the same, dressed in his favorite sweater and pants, except he wasn’t going to open his eyes or tap my hand.
In fact, he looked undeniably peaceful, as if he could see the stars dancing and the world twinkling. Like he had overcome the most difficult challenge and now could let go of the weight bearing on his shoulders. Sometimes, I glance into the sunset or the hazy moon and wonder if he is watching over us. If he is playing cards with his best friends and laughing over chai in the morning.
I’d like to say that I carry no regrets with me, but I would be lying. I wish I had asked more questions. I wish I wrote down every funny joke and piece of unsolicited advice. That I read more of his books just to discuss them during lunch, or watched more cricket to know his favorite players.
Life and death are made precious by each other. By the uncertainty of the future and the adrenaline of the present. My grandpa taught me how to live. He taught me to be kind and still advocate for myself. He showed me that speech is powerless in the absence of silence. He mentored me in doing mundane tasks that feel like second nature. But, perhaps most importantly he taught me how important it is to truly live.
So, after that day, I silently swore to always ask what book people were reading, to sit at the dinner table a little longer than I needed to and soak in the seemingly small moments because those are the ones I’ll remember the most. Now, I laugh a little harder than the joke permits and live louder than I can fathom because even time and space can’t demolish something so unforgettably real.
As for my grandpa, I hope he is laughing and drinking his chai at the perfect temperature. I hope is playing cards and reuniting with the friends he never got the chance to say goodbye to. I hope he knows that his love will never leave us.
Some say to love is to lose, but to love enough to feel the weight of loss is perhaps the objective of life itself.
