Goodbye, Grandpa

The weather today was not that dreadful from what I thought. We were here on time, so we had some time to prepare things for the ceremony. Mum who had cried for three consecutive days and her brothers were checking whether they had bought bunches of marigolds. Grandpa loved this kind of flower a lot, apart from my grandma. She was still grieving, keeping herself even more quiet than ever. I could not dare imagine what she was feeling right now.

When we arrived, the driver told one of the soldiers who were on their sentry about our errand today. He directed the driver where we had to go. Turn right and head straight for around five kilometres. And there’ll be a signpost. He seemed to be a good soldier, stereotypically, unlike those with hundreds of ridiculous refrigerator magnets on their uniforms. I would not go there if this was not my grandpa’s last words, including that marigold thing. The deeper you got in this place, the more horrendous feeling you would feel, like when you read Conrad’s Heart of Darkness.

You sit here, grandma. Grabbed my hand firmly as she was in her eighties, she gradually stepped backwards and sat on a tawny brown bench facing the glittering sea. We sat there for a while, encountering the soft sea breeze. How long had it been for her to just stay in the house and had not given herself a chance to go out? Maybe since I was a kid. I remembered one picture in the album that she and my grandpa were sitting amongst other family members as they were having dinner somewhere—it might be Bangsean, I guessed. It was my second uncle’s celebration for his graduation if my recollection was right. In that retro picture, I was just an innocent toddler sitting on grandma’s lap. I wished I could completely remember that moment. What time is it? She asked. It’s nine forty-seven. They will start the ceremony soon. I told her while fanning ourselves for more cool air. Silently, we both stared at the endless territory, lost in our private reveries. I wondered where he would go.

After we all got on a boat, one of the staff instructed us about procedures and rituals. I was sitting in the third row with my dad. Two uncles of mine were in the first row, along with my mum and grandma sitting next to her in the second row. My mum was holding grandma’s hands. Dressed in all-white clothes as grandpa wished, everyone was quiet and preoccupied, even my older uncle who had always been talkative. We headed to the spot to scatter grandpa’s ashes.

…deceased as a result of Septicaemia. It was my second uncle who was giving this speechless speech. Trembled legs. Quivering voice. I had not seen him being like this before. As though it just happened yesterday, I still remembered the time our family had to visit him at the hospital every single day. It was still heart-wrenching gazing at his barely-move abdomen just to make sure he was still alive. It still stuck in my mind when I had to call for an ambulance and went to the hospital with him.  Reminiscing to those days, it was indescribable for each of us, especially for grandma.

He used his long sleeve to shed tears and then resumed the speech. He loved and was loved by everyone who knew him. Never did he chastise anyone. Never did he despise other people. Not even a single time, I swore. I had not realised that he was quite well-known until his funeral. Beyond my imagination, hundreds of people, not only from his family members, his neighbours, his last-long friends, street vendors, those people in the fresh market, his siblings from the backcountry, even some members of the parliament went to his funeral. I could replace Joyce’s Ulysses text with those countless stories of my dedicated-to-all-the-love-of-humankind grandpa. I would write them in Thai, French, German, Chinese, Japanese, Lao, or any other languages to inscribe and everlastingly archive the invaluable history of him.

It was so overwhelming I could not pay any attention to my uncle’s speech. Everything outside was imperceptible. It was like tons of bombs inside me exploded, like the way they bombed mountains to construct railway tunnels, leaving with nothing but a bleak desolation. I felt like a hollow man. I could not even control myself.

Without any recognition, I did not know how I managed to walk to the right side of the boat. Step by step, as I could grasp myself—both body and soul — together, I saw my grandma, with her utmost devotion to her husband, scattering his remaining ashes towards the turquoise, shimmering surface of the sea, followed everyone scattering millions of yellow tiny petals of marigolds that he liked. I subsequently began to do so. Those petals were floating gently, oscillating along the sea waves. Would he receive those flowers, I wondered and wished he did. Now, he was a part of this sea, of this ocean, of the Indian ocean, of the Atlantic ocean, of every place that has water. And that question of where he would go then did not matter to me anymore since he was everywhere—maybe he was in our hearts as well.

The staff told us whether we wished to say something before he would finish the ceremony.

Rest in peace, my dear.
Rest in peace, father.
Rest in peace, father.
Rest in peace, father.
Rest in peace, father.
Don’t worry. We’ll take care of her as best as we could.

And it was time for me to say something to him.

Goodbye, grandpa.