Leave the city.

I tried to write last night, but something about the setting was too close to home to fully understand. Often, to really understand an experience, you must live it, step back and take stock to process what you have been through. 

For the longest time, I have needed to leave the city. But it’s hustle and bustle are still what compels me to board a train to Waterloo, and dive headfirst into its depths, but sometimes dry land is needed, and Somerset calls. 

I suppose it was my Grandma’s last gift to me, to pull me away from myself, my life in the capital, and into the family once more, to support and be supported. To re-charge and re-stock in the company of friends, and for that I am grateful. 

The trouble with family is that we don’t get to choose them. Unconditional love is expected throughout regardless of circumstance and we must stand by those who we share blood. Sometimes, this is a blessing. Sometimes a curse. 

But ultimately, we cannot choose our family.

The Reverend, who had also took my Granddad’s funeral, emphasised the importance of coming together at a time of loss, but I wonder how practical that is, in my family where the divides run deep, and the anger runs even deeper. In Joyce’s death, there is comfort in our own familiar bonds that should become stronger. 

My nephews are brilliant. One is old enough to run around, explore and create trouble, though butter wouldn’t melt. The other is a beautiful baby, new to this world. It is seeing them grow, and perhaps nothing else, which confirms that the choices I make are correct. 

For them, I would travel the world. And for most I would drop everything. 

I didn’t get to see my Grandma much before she passed. Life has a funny way of finding excuse after excuse. But I did see her in the final weeks. She was frail, and looked ready. 

With my brother and the kind men from the funeral home, we carried her into the crematorium. Her burden made light by the sharing of her weight. It is the perfect metaphor for passing. 

We each suffer under the loss of the departed, but by linking arms, working together and supporting each other we will be alright. We will rejoice in their memory. 

We waited for a moment for the service to begin, and the Reverend came over to pass his condolences and ask how I was. I though of what grandma might have said, her dry wit primed for these private, intimate moments: “We should stop meeting like this.”