I didn't recognize the little old man in the coffin, until I looked at his hands. They were my grandfather's hands – gnarled and twisted from arthritis and covered in sun spots from years of farm work. Distinctive and instantly recognizable. Looking at his face I eventually saw similarities between my grandfather and the old man in front of me. He was so emaciated, eyes and cheeks sunken and there was no smile, none of his naughty boy cheeky sparkle. Yet it was him, and he seemed peaceful. I know it's a cliché to say "he looked peaceful", but he did. He could have been sleeping, except for the unnatural stillness. 
I reached out to touch him, I wanted to stroke his forehead, hold his hand – but I couldn't. I reached out a few times only to pull back at the last minute. I couldn't bear the thought of feeling him cold, the final confirmation that he wasn't sleeping.
I distracted myself by investigating the quality of the coffin, peeking under the lining to pick at the chip board and tap on the plastic handles. I approved of my Grandmother's sensible money saving – why spend thousands on something you are going to bury? But I was also glad my mother had insisted that my Grandfather be dressed; he was wearing the suit that he had worn to my mother's first wedding instead of the pjs he died in which his wife was happy to have him buried in. She refused to put shoes on him though and I giggled at the thought of his bare feet under the satin shroud. My Dad and I debated the correct etiquette for coffin apparel – does one wear shoes or not? I thought since he was in a suit then he should also have shoes.
The service was very respectful and short, perhaps not as many funny stories as there could have been and I missed my chance to contribute because I misunderstood the invitation. Only one of my cousins from the whole family actually did contribute. But that's my family – verbose to the extreme if it is meaningless, but faced with an emotional situation we clam up. We then drove for 3 hours to the cemetery for the grave side service. At the end everyone was throwing flowers in the grave, I eventually did because I thought I should, but I really didn't want to. Not letting go? Maybe. Watching the coffin descend into the ground was bad, really bad. I was very grateful for the presence of my little princess and my husband, they were a great comfort. I am quite sure we have got this whole death thing wrong, it's too difficult. There must be a better way. A process that doesn't make you feel like you've had your guts ripped out.
So now he is gone. He was a character: a man of endless wit, great strength and in his own way – much love. One of the corner stones of my family is gone. I'll say good-bye in my own time.
I reached out to touch him, I wanted to stroke his forehead, hold his hand – but I couldn't. I reached out a few times only to pull back at the last minute. I couldn't bear the thought of feeling him cold, the final confirmation that he wasn't sleeping.
I distracted myself by investigating the quality of the coffin, peeking under the lining to pick at the chip board and tap on the plastic handles. I approved of my Grandmother's sensible money saving – why spend thousands on something you are going to bury? But I was also glad my mother had insisted that my Grandfather be dressed; he was wearing the suit that he had worn to my mother's first wedding instead of the pjs he died in which his wife was happy to have him buried in. She refused to put shoes on him though and I giggled at the thought of his bare feet under the satin shroud. My Dad and I debated the correct etiquette for coffin apparel – does one wear shoes or not? I thought since he was in a suit then he should also have shoes.
The service was very respectful and short, perhaps not as many funny stories as there could have been and I missed my chance to contribute because I misunderstood the invitation. Only one of my cousins from the whole family actually did contribute. But that's my family – verbose to the extreme if it is meaningless, but faced with an emotional situation we clam up. We then drove for 3 hours to the cemetery for the grave side service. At the end everyone was throwing flowers in the grave, I eventually did because I thought I should, but I really didn't want to. Not letting go? Maybe. Watching the coffin descend into the ground was bad, really bad. I was very grateful for the presence of my little princess and my husband, they were a great comfort. I am quite sure we have got this whole death thing wrong, it's too difficult. There must be a better way. A process that doesn't make you feel like you've had your guts ripped out.
So now he is gone. He was a character: a man of endless wit, great strength and in his own way – much love. One of the corner stones of my family is gone. I'll say good-bye in my own time.
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