Two years ago today, my Grandad passed away. It’s still hard to even think about or discuss but I feel like I have to honour the day somehow. Sometimes people don’t want to listen to stories about another person’s grandparent, but I have to say something. My plan was to write a book – I even got a nice leather bound one for the job and everything – about all of his stories that he used to tell me because I want to preserve them somehow. He was one of those that repeats all the time, telling the same story ten times over, but I never stopped him. I used to like hearing him talk about his role in post-war Africa and his time in the mines. He was the best storyteller I knew, not because of any great showmanship or performance, but because it was so obvious that he loved telling them. He laughed at every funny part of the tale, and would always brush over any sad parts. There’s no sadness to my Grandad that I ever remember, he was always happy and smiling.
But now…I can’t even recall a story. I’m sure I wrote them down somewhere, but I can’t remember much that he’d said, not a full story anyway, just bits. I’m struggling to remember the sound of his voice but somewhere, I have a cassette tape waiting to be played again. I once recorded an ‘interview’ I did with him at primary school about what life was like in Britain during WW2 and I have it…in my room. I’m not sure I’m quite ready to listen to it yet but I will be soon I think.
He was just so full of life and believed in everything that I did, which I think is what hurts the most. He always said I could do something if I put my mind to it and that everything would work out okay in the end. I can’t even count how many times I’ve needed to hear that in the last two years, especially the last six months.
I didn’t mean to make this post sad, but it’s kind of a sad day for the family today. Grandad, I miss you, I really do, just hope you’re living it up in there.