My Grandpa died yesterday. I hadn't seen him in the last 10 years because of distance and life and reasons, but all my memories of him from growing up were happy. We always spent Christmas at their house, with my parents driving all night while us kids slept in the bed in the back of the station wagon, to arrive at a beautifully decorated, wonderful smelling (of breakfast) home, usually at sunrise.
They are not holding a funeral, so I'm working on my own memorial service for the bonfire this weekend. We'll have people over, but I plan to make it sort of a private ceremony for myself, not a big group announcement. I have written several pages of memories, long hand, and made a copy, also written out, not on the copy machine. This seemed important. I talked to my mom, and she gave me some of her memories to write down also. My aunt was there also and she had some to add. I took some of my photos of him and made copies of them. I plan to put it all in a small box and burn it on the fire. It is a spiritual thing that I can't really explain. Fire. Death. Rebirth. The Solstice. The fire will be in our garden, giving nutrients to next year's food. I will keep the second copy of the memories and pictures with my important papers.
They say men are good compartmentalizers. But I'm a REALLY good compartmentalizer. I have one function over here in this side of my brain still working as normal. And then I have the grief part over here quietly falling apart. I just want to DO things. So, this is what I'm working on doing.
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