July 29th, 1990
I’ve been home all day, thinking about Granda and talking to mum and dad about the funeral.
“I’m sure I can get compassionate leave, if not, I’ll ring in sick.”
“No way,” dad said. “I don’t want you doing that. Besides, you know what it’ll be like up in Scotland with all the usual family nonsense.”
“I’m already up to high doh,” mum uttered.
“But dad, it’s Granda’s funeral. I should be there.”
“The funeral is just a formality. Granda knew you loved him and you know he loved you, that’s all that matters.”
“What do you think, mum?”
“I agree with dad. I think you should go to LA, hen.”
“Oh aye. Part of the reason we moved here was to get away from all the shenanigans. You don’t need to get caught in the middle of all that.”
“I still think I should go, doesn’t seem right not to.”
“I cannae stop ye,” Dad said. “But I’d rather you carry on with your life.”
The last time I saw Granda was last year, when he came to visit. I remember him asking me all sorts of questions about what I did at work, “On the plane,” and how amusing it was when I told him Stephen is gay, to which he replied; “Oh aye, he’s a happy laddie!”
Granda married Granny just shy of her eighteenth birthday, when he was twenty-one. Just last year, while he was sitting in this very chair, he told me how much he loved and still missed her every single day.
I want to give that kind of love.
I need to receive that kind of love.
I long to live my life surrounded by that kind of love.
And I know who I want to share it all with.