Every time that I've said goodbye to you on leaving Cape Town for the past few years, I've known that it might be the last time, but I've learnt that that becomes meaningless when it actually happens. You've always been there when I've gone back to Cape Town, solid as a rock, a constant presence for the whole of my life. Except next time you won't be. I knew on an academic, intellectual level that COVID could be fatal for you, but in my heart I think that I somehow believed that you would miraculously escape its clutches. You didn't. I stare at photographs of you and you look back at me, so quintessentially you: always smiling, always with a fire in your eyes, but pieces of paper are a flimsy substitute. They will not give me your huge, enveloping hugs; your hearty slap on the back (which was always a bit of a shock, especially as you grew older, because I am not sure if you ever realised your own strength).
These photographs are part of a series that you showed to me when I visited you last year. We went through photograph albums together and you regaled me with the stories of the characters who populate our family's history. You knew so much about the people who make up the fabric of my genetics, all the juicy details, and you were always so proud of the history of the Kendal family. And boy, you could tell a good story. I still keep treasured the few pages of family history that you typed out for me at least twenty years ago on your pretty much proto-type computer. You were always ahead of your time, in so many ways.
Your laugh could fill a room.
My boys remember most your tickles.
You always called me by my full name, never Rosie. I don't think anyone else did that.
I love the way that you called anyone younger than you 'lad', from my son to my husband to my father- your son. I hear echoes of your voice now: goodbye, lad; keep on playing, lad, to Matt and Will, your great-grandchildren, as we left you for the last time. You kept on playing, gramps. You had a good innings. How lucky my children were to have had a great-grandfather!
I find myself surrounded by platitudes. It was his time. He would have gone soon anyway. He had a good life. He was in his 90's, he had to go sometime. At least he died quickly and peacefully. And yes, these are true, but granddad, they don't make your going any less painful. I find that I wasn't prepared and it was too soon. I want to say one more goodbye, have one more hug. There is an emptiness in the world without you in it that is far bigger than the space that your physical body occupied. There is a sadness in my heart that knowing you were 90 doesn't begin to assuage.
Death in the time of COVID is an unnatural thing. You passed away so quickly. 36 hours. There wasn't time for me to wrap my head around what was happening. I should have been able to jump on a flight and get to Cape Town yesterday to say a final goodbye, to hold your hand and whisper to you how much you meant in all of our lives, but of course I couldn't. I should have spent last night with the family, keening, crying, hugging, remembering. It isn't the same on Facebook or WhatApp groups. I want the open bottles of wine, the wetness of tear-dampened cheeks pressing against each other, the shaking, gripping hugs of those who feel the same pain as me, the voice-on-top-of-voice of loud reminiscing. I want the exquisite hurt of laughter as we remember together the happiness of your life. COVID has reduced your death to a quiet, lonely slipping away.
I hold my son, cling to him in the knowledge that within his DNA is a part of you. In him, you live on. Rest in peace, beloved grandfather. You had such a deep and strong faith, such a passionate faith, I know that you are with your Father giving out great big bear-hugs in Heaven.
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