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Grandad's Departure
Tim Parks reflects on his children's reaction to the death of their grandfather
'Kids,' I said, 'this
is your Grandad's funeral. Understand? His funeral. Your dear old
nonno.' So far the only death they've known was the hamster's. And
the first time they tried to bury him it turned out he wasn't dead.
One of the most unsettling things in my own childhood was the sight, or
perhaps even worse the sound, of my parents' crying. The only memory I
have of my grandfather's death - the one grandfather I knew - is the
noise of sobbing from behind a bedroom door.
Now, on arrival at my wife's family's home in Pescara, the first thing
we see is a death notice wrapped around a lamppost. It's the tradition
here to advertise deaths of loved ones on small black-bordered posters beneath an image
of a suffering Christ. 'Caro Adelmo, 77 years old,' it says, 'mourned
and remembered by wife, children, grandchildren.' Climbing out of the
car, the grandchildren in question read the words with curious faces.
Michele shakes his head. But it's their mother's tears as she comes to
greet us that finally bring it home.
They want to see their grandfather one last time.
This is a strange scene. The hospital provides small rooms with
candles and religious images. Nonno is laid out in the best suit that
he never wore, an incongruous gold crucifix lying on his chest. There
is a temptation here, I always think, to feel that one's emotions are
under scrutiny and act up. Certainly some people do that. But the
children are very natural. 'Poor nonnino,' says little Lucia. The
older ones burst into tears. 'He was so still,' Michele tells me later.
'I mean it was him, only he was so still.'
Later Michele asks. 'How old do you have to be to die of a heart
attack?' 'Any age.' 'Could you?' 'Mid-forties is prime time for
heart attacks.' 'Is it?' But I notice that he isn't really worried by
this. More tentatively, he asks, 'Could I?' 'At thirteen? Possible,
but extremely unlikely.' The younger Stefi isn't even interested, as
if death didn't regard her. 'You'll die before us, won't you?' my son
asks. 'Indeed I will, I reassure him.' For the first time it occurs
to me that the older generations are there for that: to shield the
young from death with the comforting reflection that others will go
before.
How did your kids cope with the death of their grand-parents?
How did you break the news?
Should we be more open with our children when someone close dies?
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