July 27th, 1990

July 27th, 1990
At home

Granda passed away early yesterday morning.

The last of my grandparents, Granda, turned eighty-three, two weeks ago but age is irrelevant when you lose someone you love. My heart really goes out to my dad, who spent most of the day on the phone making funeral arrangements.

“Why is dad doing all this when his family in Scotland should be?”
“Same old bloody story,” mum sighed. “You know what they’re like. Hopeless.”
“Poor dad,” I said, glancing at him through the glass wall in the kitchen. “He looks terrible.”
“Aye, I’m awful worried about him. He’s taking it bad.”
“How are you holding up, mum?”
“Uff,” she said, breaking down. “I feel heartbroken.”
I grabbed some tissues and handed them to her.
“Thanks, hen,” she sniffled. “He was a good soul, wasn’t he?”
I nodded. “He really was.”

I passed Uncle Harry on his way into the house tonight just as I was heading over to see Florence.
“I’m sorry about your Granda, hen,” he said, giving me a hug.
“Thanks Uncle Harry, I know you were really fond of him.”
“Oh aye, Jimmy was a good man. Helped me out many a time, just like your dad.”
“I’m glad you’re here. My dad could do with a friend right now.”

Mum had already shared the news with Florence, so when I went in, she stood up and wrapped me in a big hug. Florence is a great friend and someone I can talk freely with, about pretty much anything. She’s always kind and considerate and especially good when it comes to the stuff that hurts your heart.

When I got home, mum and dad were sitting in the kitchen.
“Hiya, hen. Fancy a wee cuppa?” mum said, getting up.
“Sit down mum, I can do it. Dad?”
“What?”
“Tea?”
“No hen,” he sighed, waving his hand. “I need something a wee bit stronger.”
“I’ll get you a wee half,” mum said, pushing her chair back.
“Are you getting everything sorted out, dad?”
“Aye, the funeral is all arranged. Best to get it over with sooner rather than later.”
“Oh, good,” I blurted. “Sorry, I didn’t mean good, I meant…”
“It’s awright hen, I know what you mean.”
“When is it, dad? When is Granda’s funeral?”
“Next Tuesday.”
“Next Tuesday?”
“Aye, the thirty-first,” he said quietly. “July the thirty-first.”

The day I’m scheduled to go to LA.

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