Live Forever

January.

I don’t need to think of you in the sky, looking down on us, you’re far too busy to be doing that.

You’re probably out in the garden harvesting a bunch of funny yellow tomatoes, or over at the cricket club having a pint.

We must not think that you are gone, you will live on, in all who remember you. In us, in the kids. In their kids when they hear stories about you.

Every day somebody will think of a funny Chris Turner story, singing old navy songs after too much rum, or sitting there doing the cryptic crossword that no one else can do.

Sitting there with your unfathomably long legs and big feet, and what are those? Another pair of bargain Clarks shoes to add to your collection on the back of the door out to the garage.

But who will I sit next to at breakfast? With your homemade bread and some unusual marmalade, showing me the label that shows it’s come from Germany or something, you find those things fascinating.

I’m glad the kids got to know their great granddad, the greatest of great granddads. Most aren’t that lucky.

There is no heaven though, is there. There’s probably no afterlife either. It’s ok though, because you’ll live on in our memories, that’s much better than any heaven. It’s real for everyone, no doubt about that. You’ll live on in us.

And there you’ll stay, with your movie star widow’s peak pointing down your forehead to your glowing, love-filled blue eyes, laughing your big deep laugh at the people on TV who can’t manage even basic general knowledge.

We’ll tell stories about you, I’ll remember your big hands, picking me up when I was little, putting me on your shoulders and me holding onto your balding head. It’s been a while since you picked me up. You were my Father Christmas, I made sure everyone knew it was you under that red and white hood.

And when we pour tea from the Picquot Ware teapot, we’ll all say “Oh that’s such a good pour” because, well, it pours so well, it doesn’t even drip. I hope when I’m your age I’ll be as enthusiastic about the random things you were interested in.

March.

I started writing this before you went, and now you are gone. I’m angry that I can’t cuddle you any more, disappointed at the suddenly tidy coffee table which is missing a collection of a few days worth of The Telegraph, and heartbroken for gran, for myself and everyone else. I’m even sad that you didn’t get to attend your own funeral, you would have loved seeing everyone.