i don't know why i'm writing this. but i am.

A couple of months ago, I read this thing Nan Goldin wrote,

if you don't know who she is, she's a photographer, and she's amazing.

She said that she used to think if she took enough pictures of people she loved, she'd have them forever.

One of the thoughts that crossed my mind yesterday, in the car up to see my Nan,

on one of the silent moments we shared,

was what Nan Goldin had said.

And how I have one or two photos of my Grandad.

Already he was dissapearing from my memory.

I was trying to remember his height,

the exact dimensions of his face,

I wished I could draw,

Re-construct him exactly.

I wished I could have gone back, to take some photos of him,

to preserve my memory of him perfectly.


Last night,

I took his jacket out of my wardrobe to look at it,

I can't wear it.

It isn't mine.

It still belongs to him.

I wanted to take photos of it,

As if doing so, would be taking photos of him.

The lighting was wrong,

There were no angles,

This isn't one of your photography projects

my mind screamed

This is REAL,

you just want to see it through a camera so you can distance yourself from it,

but it happened.


I hate that, even at a time like this, my brain won't let me be stupid.

It's still racing with thoughts that don't help.

I keep thinking about the situation from a quantum physician's point of view,

because I haven't seen him dead, it's hard for me to really believe it.

It's hard for me to not believe he's just somewhere else,

Or in many different places at once.

Quantum Physics says that if you can't observe a persons whereabouts,

instead of assuming where they are,

they can be in many different places at once,

and you can only know they are in one place,

when you see them.

We turned up too late yesterday.

His body had already gone.

He's having an autopsy tomorrow.

There will be no open casket.


Is this ever going to feel real?

Grandad.

So, my Grandad died this morning.

I cried more than I knew I could.

I'd just gotten out of bed, the sleep still fresh in my eyes, the incoherent thoughts surrounding my semi-consciousness.

The phone rang.

I didn't recognize the voice. They asked for my Dad.

It was only after I passed it over I thought it might have been my Nan. I thought that was quite odd. She never really calls my house.

It's always my Grandad.

He'd always say "You're like your Dad's secretary, Sarah! You should ask him to pay ya! Go on, go ask him to pay you - Ask him now - See if he laughs!"

Or he'd ask me "What's the weather like down there?"

He'd literally ring up just to ask that.

I sat on my sofa playing with my dog. Semi-listening to my Dad's end of the conversation.

He burst into tears.

I've literally never seen my Dad cry. Ever.

In the seventeen years I've known him. He's never cried in front of me before.

The second he asked "when did it happen?" as he left the room, it fitted into place.

"Who was it, Sarah?" my Mum asked. Worried.

Trying to piece the puzzle together.

Trying to follow my Dad.

I was already up. Trying to follow him, too. Wanting to hear something that would deter me away from the conclusion I'd just drawn.

"I... I think it was Nanny," I stuttered, tears welling up, "I think Grandad's dead."

I burst into tears.

I haven't cried so hard in years.

If you know me, I'm notorious for a cold-heart. I never cry. At anything.

And if I do, it's more a quiet sob than crying.

But this time, I really cried.

My Dad didn't even have to tell me it'd happened.

He was too upset to speak. My Mum took the call as I hugged him.

He pushed me away.

Said he needed to get out of the house.

Turning it inwards. Like he always does.

Told me he wanted to be alone.

I texted my brother. Telling him to call us. Urgently.

Tried to contact my Aunt.

Waited for it to really sink in.

We dropped my sister's friend home. The one that stayed over last night to mark the begining of their summer holidays.

My Brother got driven back from his girlfriends house. The first time he'd ever stayed there. The morning after he met her parents.

My Nan was two hours away, sitting downstairs on her own. Her dead husband lying on the floor upstairs.

We were on the road within the hour.

Sharing stories.

Laughing.

Crying.

Remembering.

The way he'd ask us every single time he came down if we watched Emmerdale. Always calling it Emmerdale Farm, no matter how many times we corrected him.

The way he'd pick up things he found on the floor of his cleaning job and bring them home to me and my sister. Broken necklaces. Chipped bangles. Spare Earings. And one time, a tampon.

The way he used to run for the train. At his age.

His hypocondria. The way he knew all the Doctors by first names.

The way he'd leave his phone unlocked in his pocket, and accidently ring us. Blocking up our line for hours.

The way he'd call us, and let the phone ring for minutes as we all sat around the dinner table, grunting and rolling our eyes.

The gossip he told us every week.

The way, after my Mum would make him lunch, he'd always remark, "I'm not used to being waited on hand and foot!"

The way he loved his dogs.

The way he loved us...

Every now and again, it didn't feel as if it'd happened.

I felt fine.

I didn't believe it.

But mostly, I cried.

I just wanted it to not be real.

I wanted it to be some sick joke.

I wanted my Nan to somehow be wrong.

As we pulled up, we saw my Aunt.

The second she'd heard the news, she'd left her house.

Didn't even have the time to put in her false teeth.

The second we got across the road, she hugged my Mum and burst into tears.

By the time we'd gotten there, my Grandad had been taken away.

I wanted to cry.

But I felt like I had to stay strong. For the family.

That's my Dad rubbing off on me.

After my Aunt had stopped crying, she left the room to light up a cigarette.

I burst into tears.

Uncontrollable.

In my brothers arms.

When we pulled away, we both had tears streaming down our faces.

I can't remember the last time I saw him cry, either.

We sat around.

Not really sure what to do.

There was nothing we could do.

Nothing that would help.

My Dad and his Sister, in his room.

"It's OK," my Dad said, as I gingerly approached the door, "you can come in."

My Aunt had picked up his watch.

"I'm gonna take this." She said.

Sentiment.

"Do you want this?" She asked, handing me a toy key-ring he'd kept in his room.

"No thanks." I said, "I'm fine."

"If you want something, take it." My Dad told me.

It's a blur from then on.

I went upstairs.

Downstairs.

I hugged my Brother.

My Sister.

My Mum.

My Dad.

My Aunt.

Sometimes they cried.

Sometimes I cried.

I stood in his room.

Alone.

Observing the beauty of it all.

The way everything had its own little niche.

All the things that seemed so untouched. So real.

So lived in.

The half-empty bottle of deoderant.

The clothes he'd strewn over the chair.

The comb with his hairs still in.

The cobwebs that'd gathered.

The blood on his bed.

I wanted to take it all in.

I wanted to some how preserve it, not move a thing. I wanted it to stay there forever.

I wanted to be able to see it again.

I didn't want to take anything away.

Or move anything.

I didn't want to disturb it.

I cursed myself for not having my camera. For missing the opportunity to not be able to record this.

I didn't want my Nan to move anything. When I came back up the following week, for the funeral, I wanted to bring up my camera and take a picture.

"They're going to put it all in boxes." My Dad told me.

I searched his room for something.

Something that meant something to me.

I didn't want any of the pretty things he'd left. They didn't mean a thing to him. They were just for display.

I wanted something real.

Something that meant something.

Something that reminded me of him.

My Dad, he came up to help me.

Even though it was painful for him to do so.

Our search was fruitless.

As we came downstairs, we stopped by the coat-hanger.

"Do you want his jacket?" he asked me.

"Is it OK if I do?"

"Yeah, sure. It's not going anywhere."

He handed me the jacket I'd seen my Grandad wear so many times.

Still hung on the peg, with a dog leash next to it.

He'd probably hung them both up after taking out his dogs last night.

It wasn't until later that my sister looked in one pocket, and told me there was money in there.

One pound, twenty pence.

In the other pocket was dirty tissues.

In the fabric of the jacket some of his hairs had been caught.

It seemed so apt.

On the way there, whilst we were talking about him, none of us lied.

So many lie about the deceased.

None of us pretended he was Mother Theresa.

We all knew he'd annoyed us at times.

Like how he told me I'd put on weight.

The way he was insensitive.

But it didn't mean we didn't love him,

It didn't mean he wasn't a great man,

it just meant that he was real.

And not acknowledging that,

That would have been like not acknowledging the real him properly.

And taking something from his room that was pretty, that wouldn't mean anything.

Taking something from his room with his hairs caught in, and his dirty tissues, and loose change.

That really meant something.

I love my Grandad.

He wasn't perfect. But he was lovely.

He had a heart of gold.

He told me, only a few weeks ago, "I think the world of you, Sarah."

And now all I can do is kick myself for not saying it back.

I know he knew I loved him.

He cried when we made him birthday cakes.

He cried anytime any of us showed him affection.

I love my Grandad. Even with his death, that will never change.

His stories will outlive us all. His quirks. His sayings.

He will always be in my heart.

Always.