You’re A Princess

As long as I’d known my grandfather, he’d been a cripple from multiple strokes and a heart attack. He couldn’t walk and he couldn’t talk, but something about his presence made everyone happy.  The children would sit on his lap as he was wheeled about, and his relatives would pay great attention to caring for him.  Despite his impairment, he had a sense of adventure – he always wanted to go everywhere and see everything. Eventually he died of his ailments, and I didn’t understand it at the time, but his absence would never heal.

I was backing up some family video one or two years ago when I stumbled across a video of my grandfather playing with me as a baby.  ”Who’s a princess?” he kept asking me, “You’re a princess.”  He kissed me, and I squealed the way I still do when people kiss me unexpectedly.  It was the first time, in memory, that I’d ever heard his voice.

I still don’t know what to make of that moment.  I played the video over and over again as I cried.

His voice was rough from years of smoking, and his Geordie accent so thick I could hardly understand him.  The words he said sounded alien to me, yet they were the words of someone who loved me in a way that is still beyond my capacity to understand.

Seeing myself so loved by my grandfather made me feel guilty.  It still makes me feel guilty thinking about it.

After he died, I didn’t really feel that sad.  I found out early in the morning in bed when my brother asked my mother “Why did granddad have to die?” which struck me as an incredibly stupid question, a question asked not for an answer but in order to obtain comfort (at that age I disdained such questions.)  I stopped pretending to be asleep, and sat up and asked “Granddad’s dead?”

I wrote a note on it in my diary, which was abstract and rational like the child that I was.  I didn’t really understand why people were so upset – wouldn’t he be happier in heaven where he could walk, and talk, and get his leg back?

Before the funeral, I was excited about getting a new black coat.  I was happy when my parents took me out shopping.  I was happy when I played with my cousins in the street.  And I remember (this is the part I feel guilty about – I find it terribly difficult to write about) talking excitedly to my cousin about how we would get to sit in the front row during the funeral because we were related to him.  I was more concerned with my own specialness at my seating arrangement than I was sad about his death.

My aunt overheard me, and was upset by this.  I did not gather this directly, but from my mother who sat me down and kindly talked to me about how funerals weren’t about where people sat but remembering the person who died.  She tried to explain to me that my aunt had been upset by my comment, and to elucidate to me that what I said would be difficult to hear for someone who had just lost her father.  I didn’t understand.

But, I noticed when I was placed in the second row during the funeral.

After that, I’ve been weird about seating at funerals and weddings.  At Nana’s funeral, I was placed in the front row, and I felt so anxious about it.  I was in my twenties, yet I still found myself wondering if this was a sign they’d forgiven or forgotten the incident at my grandfather’s funeral.  At Jason’s wedding, he had no family in the audience so his friends – including me – sat in the front row.  Is this ok?  I kept asking – are you sure this is ok?  (Yes, my friends kept reassuring me, you’re being completely ridiculous.)

And every time I think about this video of my grandfather, I also remember moment right before his funeral.  I’ve tried justifying it to myself a million times – I was young and stupid, I didn’t understand what death was, I didn’t know what it felt like to live without someone, I didn’t know how far away heaven really was if it existed at all – but it never helps.

I’ve re-watched the video of my grandfather, and he’s so kind and gentle to me I think surely he would understand.  Surely he could forgive me my transgression against him at his funeral, and I genuinely believe he probably would forgive me.  But, then I’m just left feeling unworthy that someone as kind and sweet as all that would love me.

Rationally, I realize I’ve lost all perspective on this event.  Like, actually.  I have no idea how horrible what I said was.  Was it just part of the stupid shit kids say, and have I blown it out of proportion in my mind?  Was it actually a particularly cold and callous thing for an eight year old to say at a funeral?  I have no idea!

Yesterday, I was on a date of sorts, and we were talking about regrets.  I genuinely had a difficult time coming up with any regrets, something I would undo.  Sure, I’ve made mistakes, but I’ve learned from all of them so I wouldn’t want to take them back.

But, I’d take this back.  Sure, I learned from it and seen things about myself and whatever.  But it’s not worth it.  I don’t want to understand this event, I just want to be forgiven for it.

However, I can’t take it back.

So what have I learned?

That when I die, I should arrange the chairs in a big circle so everyone at my funeral can be in the front row.  Because all of us, assholes and all, are princesses really.