Saturday evening. There I was, minding my own business. Skillfully tiptoeing through all the stress-inducing tasks of the week, meanwhile pointlessly quarrelling with Matt. He and I had bought things at the D.I.Y. shop to finally turn that ugly wall in our living room into something pretty.

Matt’s phone rings. The display tells us it’s my parents calling. How odd. My cell phone, I forgot to turn it on today. But still… What could be so important? Then the surreal but definitive news reaches my ears: this morning, while you were sleeping, you have died…

I so wish time would have stood still for you.

Just to give me time to take this in. To process it all and to be strong for my parents. But instead it pours all over me like a waterfall of emotions, all-consuming and powerful. Tears burst out of my eyes and roll down my face.

I’ve been so stupid. I know I should have visited you more often. I know I should have done so in the past weeks. But you were moving houses and it just seemed more appropriate, more logical, to wait with visiting until you were settled in your new home. Now it’s too late. I was too late. If only I… If only time…

I so wish time would have stood still for you.

For you to live. For us to talk. For me to get to know you a little better. I remember so much and yet I realise I know so little. You were there all my life, but did I really know who you were?

So many memories of things we did together when I was a child, when I was a teenager, when I was a young adult. However, one memory seems to dominate: you had that peculiar and fascinating secret smile. A smile that sometimes slipped through your wall of withheld emotions and spread around your lips and eyes. You sometimes watched us with that smile. I always felt it was one of intense happiness and pride, almost on the edge of arrogance. My guess is you just really loved us all. But now I’ll never get round to asking you what that smile really meant. I can only remain guessing.

I so wish time would have stood still for you.

Not only so I could delve into the past with you. Moreover because I wanted to have you around in my future. There was still so much I had to show you, wanted to show you. My work, my writing, my success, my thoughts, my joy and occasional sorrow. And someday maybe I will say ‘yes’ to Matt and the day of our wedding will take place. I used to hope, always foolishly assumed, you could be there to attain my marriage someday.

I so wish time would have stood still for you.

Thursday. The day we’re saying goodbye for the last time. The day of your ‘official departure’. I know you’ve gone up to heaven, or wherever, days ago, maybe even the minute of your death. But I’m sure you understand that us surviving relatives need a way to say goodbye properly. And the ceremony was beautiful, I mean, really impressive and loving. I hope the deceased have a way of noticing their burials and cremations, because I know you would have been pleased.

And, good heavens, that ceremony was long! Even though it was in our hometown Matt and I must have been participating in it all for at least six hours straight. It was almost impossible to not lose my concentration every now and then. Not now, I thought, I need to experience every second of this. Nevertheless, with every minute I felt that the last moment we would see you on earth was drawing near ferociously. I wanted to hold on to you, to this moment. Not that I could never let go, but simply not just yet.

I so wish time would have stood still for you.

My father’s mother. My grandmum. Taken by time. You were my perfectly brilliant grandmamma.

Time should have stood still for you.

Column published by Cecile on Monday, February 11th, 2008.

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