the .: fyr :. light

My Grandfather-in-law passed away early on Thanksgiving Day 2009. He had been ailing for some time and in desperate pain. I think everyone, while sad at his passing, was also relieved that he was finally at peace. For me, it was far more difficult than I had thought it would be. It put me in a foul mood all day – I was snippy and argumentative and irritable and then, finally, quick to tears when I managed to stop myself from yelling at some random triviality.

Death in the family for me has always been treated with respect but not hair-tearing grief. The most recent death being that of my father’s second-mother. She helped raise him and I know they were very close. Yet I never saw my father lose control. I don’t think he was much different when his own mother died and I was too young to remember.

My father has always been a little disdainful of the wailing we would witness on TV – be it fiction TV or local news. I don’t think he ever said anything outright, but I always got the feeling that he found that kind of display overly dramatic. My mother was only slightly less stoic. She broke down and cried when her mother died. Although, that wasn’t much of a surprise considering Grams was the only parent she had ever known – real or adopted.

When Grams died in June of 2003, 2 weeks short of her 96th birthday, Dad called me while I was out with friends. I remember thinking it was odd that he was the one doing the calling since Mom was usually the one to call. What he said was just as odd: “You planning on stopping by today?” I was used to them asking me to come by, so the question in and of itself wasn’t strange. It was when he insisted “Come on over” after I said I hadn’t planned on visiting that put me on my guard. It wasn’t until after the call that I realized that Grams must have died and he hadn’t wanted to tell me over the phone.

The first death that directly affected me, was that of my first piano teacher who had a great deal of influence on my early years. I wouldn’t say I was an impressionable child, but adults tended to sound louder in my head when they spoke their wisdom than the kids that I came in contact with who thought they knew more. Miss Hewitt was a great deal louder than quite a few adults. Some might even have described her as abusive … but she taught me a lot about music and life, and her death was a blow. Mom took me to the funeral, and I will never forget the experience. It is customary to “view the body” lying in the coffin at a funeral and being my first funeral I had no idea what to expect. Miss Hewitt’s unnatural pallor haunted my dreams for months after that and I vowed to never again look upon the face of a dead person in their coffin.

The one person whom I cried the hardest for was Andre Mair – a young man who I worked with for a long time, disliked at first for his childishness and grew fond of him over the years because he was smart, and not only did he ask for advice, he usually listened – unusual for a young man these days. I cried hardest for him because his death was the most tragic I had encountered – Andre drowned off the north-east coast of Jamaica in a storm-stoked undertow that’s legendary for that part of the coast.

Yet, death for me has never just meant the end of a life here, but also the beginning of a new life somewhere else yet unknown to me. Yes, I mourned the loss of their influence and input in my life, but it was with the thought that someday we would meet again. I am convinced that life goes on in some form, somewhere else – and maybe that is what helps me maintain that stoicism that my parents demonstrated in my childhood.

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