Goodbye, Grampa

For the first time since arriving in Bhutan, I wish I was in Nova Scotia. Today I received word that my grandfather Adrian Bates has died. It happened on the 16th but because I accidentally left my laptop’s power adaptor at school over the weekend, I found out just a few hours ago. It was the end of my lunch break and the clock was telling me to head back to school and review three-digit multiplication. I split in half. Part of me went up the road to fulfill my responsibilities. Part of me went a hemisphere and two days away to process the news. Grampa is gone.

Grampa. When I was a child, I knew only a few things about him. He played cards. He called me Tweety Bird. He was proud to be Irish and loved St. Patrick’s Day. He was proud to be a veteran and loved Remembrance Day. I got to know him a bit better in grade twelve when I finally talked to him about the war. He liked to tell the happy stories: meeting the princess, driving the British Prime Minister, catching a spy, giving presents to the children at the Liberation of Holland. He left the horrible rest of it to far-off looks.

When I grew up, I began to see his secret strength. He had a love for his family that allowed him to do impossible things. He was an alcoholic before I was born but the story goes that one day, without any word, he gave it up cold turkey. He was a smoker when I was little but he gave up tobacco in just the same way. If he had not had that strength and love, we would have lost him years ago. Instead, he was there for my wedding. In Matthew’s suit.

Grampa was Catholic and most of his family will take comfort in the knowledge that he’s in Heaven with Jesus. In Bhutan, of course, I hear a lot more about reincarnation than Heaven. Every time I do, I think of a Cape Breton song that Grampa had sung to him by many of his grandchildren before their voices changed and they could no longer hit a high F: “When the light goes dark with the forces of creation /Across a stormy sky / We look to reincarnation to explain our lives / As if a child could tell us why / That as sure as the sunrise / As sure as the sea / As sure as the wind in the trees / We rise again in the faces of our children…”

It is stormy here now. The power is out and my computer screen is the only searing brightness in a world that is darker without Grampa. But I don’t need to look any farther than my own face to see his features reincarnated. I am one of over seventy descendants who owe their existence to Grampa’s love for Gramma. We all bear something of his likeness in our smile. If we all have a bit of his character, too, a bit of his strength, a bit of his self-sacrifice, a bit of his gentleness, a bit of his diligence, a bit of his love, then I think the world really isn’t that dark.

In Bhutan, the passing of loved ones is marked every seven days for forty-nine days. I’m going to do that for Grampa. I just wish I could do more for Mom and Grandma. Those of you who are closer, please give them a hug from me.