Imprudence and Mourning

My grandfather died this morning. That doesn't sound right. Like the timing is off. My grandfather survived a pretty horrific car crash earlier this fall. We thought we might lose him for a while. But, we didn't.


Over Christmas, he spoke to me about making the most of my life and taking care of my body. He encouraged me to enjoy myself in London and to apply myself to my studies. He spoke of his newfound feeling of vulnerability and mortality. He said I had too many theories.


Last night, my grandfather went to sleep next to the woman he'd been through heaven and hell with, two yappy dogs asleep beside them. This morning around four a.m. he stopped breathing. My grandmother awoke to her still breathed husband.


Somehow, the timing feels wrong. But, everything that happens, happens, doesn't it? So, the timing can't be off. I'm not saying I believe in meant to be's, but that doesn't matter. It doesn't matter what might have happened. What matters is what is taking place. My Pops is dead.


Part of me thinks such public mourning as this is imprudent, but perhaps I've been among the Puritans too long. I come from a long line of emoters. We laugh, we cry. I'm sure over the next few weeks as we prepare for the funeral, I will share many memories of my grandfather that will elicit tears and laughter. For now, I will just say that he is the only grandfather I've even known. We used to split boxes of cookies n' cream ice cream and watch the Ninja Turtles. As a kid, you take those things for granted, but I'm sure he wasn't interested in the finer points of Splinter's philosophy. I was lucky to have my grandfather in my life for so long. I'm lucky to mourn him so deeply now. I hope you will bear with me over the next few weeks as I honor the memory of a great man.


In the meantime, I want to share something that reminds me that perhaps public mourning is important:


Funeral Blues
by W.H. Auden


Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.