There is comfort.

Quite a few of the books I've read recently contain a notion of death in all its various forms, and frankly it is never too far away. From 'The Underground Railroad' to 'All The Beautiful Places', this classic ending of life, the great unknown and equaliser of man is a theme close to my heart right now. 

And yet I do not feel sadness, at least not yet, with grief being just as strange a beast as death itself. Instead, I feel a relief, not for myself per se, but for those who have long been yearning for a final farewell from this world and a need to explore the next. 

My grandmother had just turned 89, which all things considered is not a bad feat. She has seen war, and she has seen peace. In her lifetime the world has changed unimaginably and that perhaps is the most scary thing.

Truth is, in this world, if you don't keep pace with all the developments in society, then you risk being left behind. I've seen it happen to many of the people around me, even at my young age, who have stepped off the need for development and I fear risking this step too.

For Joyce, and Roy before he died a few years back, they'd been spending their days in a cottage in rural Wiltshire, too proud to move with only each other for company. Since Roy stopped driving, they became isolated, relying on the kindness of well meaning neighbours and the scheduled visits from a care agency.

The most debilitating thing though was the lack of communication. My grandparents lived in a different world. One of landlines and first-class letters, of terrestrial television and VHS, rather than that of DAB, email and social media. As kids, we're brought up to respect new technology, and less to respect the technology of the past.

It leaves a generational gap, where I could no longer connect to my grandparents, nor they to I. I am to blame, not for lack of effort perhaps but instead for a lack of understanding that the way in which we talk with the world around us is completely different. 

And because of this, our interests and common ground are short, few subjects spanning the gap of the 60-odd-years between us.

So I regret now not asking them about their favourite books, for them to show me more of their world and share with me their favourites. All I know is that my grandfather was a bus driver and that my grandma loved the colour jade and chocolate raisins.

I got a message a few weeks ago from my aunt, Joyce's daughter, to say that my grandma was holding on, would be moved to a residential home to spend her final weeks whilst she waited for the inevitable. I jumped straight onto a train to see her one last time, to say my goodbyes.

She didn't recognise me, and truth is, I barely recognised her.

There is comfort to be taken in the fact that she is reunited with my grandfather. There is comfort in the knowledge that she is suffering no more. There is comfort in realising that at the end of everything, we are little more than bones, flesh and soul, and whatever we achieve in life isn't for ourselves but for that of the generation to come.

Joyce, grandma, until we meet again, I love you and may you have happiness in eternity.