It's been nearly five years since my grandfather died. I only remember because my dad reminded us recently. I occasionally go visit his gravesite in Provo to say hi and check in on him. I remember the day he died. I was waiting for the Pride parade to start in SLC when my phone started ringing, and I knew immediately what the call was about. I didn't march that day. Instead, I rushed off to Provo and spent most of the day with a lot of my family. Some only stayed in the dining room, but I was eager to sit with his body. That may be macabre, but my grandmother clearly wanted as many of us to spend time with him before letting anyone call the morgue.
So I sat in my grandparents' bedroom, lights low, talking to my grandfather. I stroked his hair and made some personal requests--he wasn't the only person I knew who had died by then.
It was a strange day. My perception of the flow of time is skewed. I don't remember walking to my car in SLC. I don't remember the drive to Provo or rushing inside. I barely remember my husband's presence. All I remember is sitting close to my grandfather's body, only an hour or two after he had passed, and thinking how peaceful he looked and how close he felt.
So I sat in my grandparents' bedroom, lights low, talking to my grandfather. I stroked his hair and made some personal requests--he wasn't the only person I knew who had died by then.
It was a strange day. My perception of the flow of time is skewed. I don't remember walking to my car in SLC. I don't remember the drive to Provo or rushing inside. I barely remember my husband's presence. All I remember is sitting close to my grandfather's body, only an hour or two after he had passed, and thinking how peaceful he looked and how close he felt.
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