I still owe this community my first rant. It might come soon enough. But since we also have a talk part, well, I'm going to press that button to talk about these past days.
"I tell you, son. We think this or that is going to happen. I remind you that any day is good for dying."
It's been a rough week. I guess that applies to any day you lose someone is your family. The news came when I had just woke up. It took my a while to process. It took me every bit of control not to cry when I heard my grandmother weeping and wailing. I had never heard that sound in my life. It feels like a knife slitting down your throat and gently going inside your heart.
Slowly, each member of the family that is still around arrived. My aunt got her stuff stolen while going to the mortuary. Another stuff to add to the tragedy. She was also one of the few who couldn't keep her cool during this. I'm not blaming her. My cousin, her daughter also cried at loud when she called. It doesn't help my grandmother. But grandpa died. There's no actual help that's worth or for that matter helpful.
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I managed to keep myself busy helping around the house. We shared a moment to make my grandma smile telling the usual jokes of my grandpa. Also, some of the things he used to complain. These are also more jokes: like getting a fork to eat rice, when he uses a spoon; not getting his soup spoon; not having food ready at midday; and more of that.
There was a moment of tension when the mortuary services arrived and they were joking about something related to carrying the body to the car. And I swear, if I had had something to hit them, the body count of the day would have tripled.
Anyways, we had lunch and finally went to the place. Little by little the members of the extended family and friends arrived. I kept myself busy joking with one of the cousins. The last in the line of grandchildren. That's when the phrase of the beginning came into play. It's true. Grandpa used to say that a lot. He was afraid of it, but he knew it was bound to happen. His physical condition had deteriorated since he had stopped working. So, he finally has the rest he deserves.
Funerals are weird things. I have only attended another in my life. It was 20 years ago when my grandma's sister died from cancer. And this was the easiest part of the days. Going to the cemetery was the beginning of the ordeal.
The Municipal Graveyard is a mess in this city. It's been oversold and the designated room for graves is not respected. What do I mean? There's barely enough room to walk. Imaging carrying a casket and having to walk of top of graves because there's no other way. That was the thing. Under the midday sun, we carried grandpa to the family grave. It was heavy work. But we did it. My arms are still sore for this.
Before getting the casket in the grave, all those who wanted to bid their last farewell did it. And again I heard to excruciating sound.
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After the burial, we went back to grandma's house and spent the afternoon there. We had fish to eat. We shared stories. Even got drinking. Told stories about grandpa. Also spent sometime before lunch was ready to fix some minor issues in the house.
Finally, I returned home. And when it finally hit me. I was there on the floor of the bathroom, weeping, wailing, waving my hands. The question in mind was "who is going to tell me about the city, the characters related to the family, the family genealogy, all of that?" But in that moment it struck me. There's this story about being afraid of the dark and grandpa telling me "do not, I'm here. And even when I stop being here, I'll still be here".
It was the same fact. I had heard to all the stories enough times. Some were repeated over the years. But I have all of those with me. That's the reason I like storytelling and writing. For that, I have to thank my grandpa.
I also remembered other stories. But it's curious enough that most of those stories are about eating or drinking something. We were like that. If we saw something we wanted to eat, we would put away anything we were doing and go and get some of whatever it was we had set our minds to get.
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There are details in the stories that slip my mind. I did not live them, but most of them are funny. There's this one of a cousin going in a fishing boat up to Japan and saying his last name was Cortesía. A guy selling fish in the docks told him that the Cortesía he knew worked in Cumaná in Venezuela. And yes, this Japanese seller had met my grandfather at some point in his life. I bet it was enough to make a long-lasting impression. Such as the one he left in all of those who met him and had the opportunity to interact with him.
Rest in peace, grandpa!