We lost Grandad a week ago today. One week. Seems like too small a number for how long this week felt.
The initial shock of it all comes on like a fact. "He's gone," shoots straight to the point of pain where it numbs your nerves. You get out of the car just the same as you got in. Your tears hurt, but in an out of body type way. You heard what Dad said but you don't realize what it means. Logistics take place of feelings and it becomes more about picking Brother up from the airport than understanding your father is an orphan.
Grandad with my dad and uncle, the infamous Jardy and Yardy.
Then you pull up to his house. The same house we lost Grandma in 20 years ago. The same house Jardy and Yardy came home to. The same house you picked pecans in, looked at coin collections in and were toted around in a wheelbarrow in. Although there's pain, you know you aren't feeling enough. Your hurt doesn't justify the lost life. "Why don't I feel more?" The same house where numbness seeps in.
Me and Grandma.
Toting around in the wheelbarrow.
There is no other word that has crossed my mind this long week more than "weird." Death is weird. Watching your dad lose his dad is weird. Watching your uncle and dad cry together is weird. Constantly counting people to see where Grandad is, is weird. Feeling as though all time has stood still for 4 solid days is weird. You can't put into words for other people what your grieving process is like. You shuffle back and forth between guilt of what you could've done more of and the appreciation of the time you did have.
It's hard to make other people understand how you process loss. For me, it's been in waves. I'll be very calm and there won't be hurt. Then suddenly I feel it rising up within me. Slowly then all at once. One deep breath and tears flow. Calmness settles in again and repeat.
Meeting Grandad for the first time.
It's also hard to explain how you can experience fullness of life upon someone's death. Like I said, weird. This week while filled with sorrow, was also filled with a whole lot of love. You do a lot of sitting and waiting in these long weeks. Waiting for the inevitable to catch up to the happened. Waiting for the "I'm sorrys" and the casseroles. Waiting for the neighbor to walk in and the cousins to arrive. Waiting for that 2:00 on Tuesday. And during that waiting you talk. You talk about things you haven't talked about in years. And as strange as it feels to say, the talking is so sweet.
I learned more about my grandad this week than I may have known my whole life. And oh how he loved his boys and his family. A beautiful thing I'm drawn to when people die is their legacy. The one found in their bloodline. My Grandma's legacy has echoed in the back of my mind since I was old enough to understand a person's impact on the world. And in the past week I got to watch Grandad's legacy go from what would be, to what is. I am an extremely proud granddaughter, daughter and niece.
My little, bald, Bird-self with grandad.
My father and uncle were always taught to take nothing for granted. The world owed them nothing and if they wanted different, better, more, well then they knew to "make a hand, son." Grandad's famous saying was etched into their DNA and both have exemplified that to me, my brother and cousins. They are a living testimony to my Grandad's hard work.
Grandad lived a simple life, but one of character. He was neither fake nor filtered and because of that he loved deeply, yet quietly. You knew where he stood, always. And I am so appreciative of that.
As my family processes this loss, my prayer has been that we would truly learn to “make a hand, son.”
The marriage of LaRue Sheppard and Roland Powell, my grandma and grandad. Finally together again after 20 years.
