Not the roses

Years ago, when I was young enough to need a hand to hold on my walk home from school, I had a conversation with my granny about death. I can't remember the context, or why I was asking about it, in fact I hardly remember the conversation at all. Just the one little bit; her answer to my question of why people cry when someone dies. I told her I would cry because I was sad, wouldn't she? In the most gentle of grandparent traditions, she told me a story. Her friend had died, and she had cried then. "I wasn't sad for me," she told me, "but my friend had the most beautiful roses. When she died, I cried because I was sad about the roses. Who would look after the roses?"

This weekend, her husband, my grandpa, passed away.

He was really tall, and really bald. Our family is famous for our hooked and crooked noses of which he was the proud patriarch. He mumbled an Afrikaans prayer before every meal and for years I tried to decipher his words; I gave up eventually, relishing the mystery of his short incantation. He'd come over to visit and, as we'd all sit outside chatting, he'd bend down and start to weed the lawn, or the driveway, or the minute cracks between tiles on the stoep. He didn't usually heed to the subsequent "Opi, SIT!" from his wife and children. Along with the nose, he gave his five children a work ethic that drives his grandchildren insane. And with that work ethic--similar to what you'd find amongst an efficient troupe of precision elves--he gave us, and gave us all, an unwavering commitment to making things work. Nothing is ever broken; it's just in need of fixing. Oh, and fixing that you'll do yourself. He leaves behind a family who wield power tools like most people wield cutlery.

He would have naps on the carpet in their lounge.

It's impossible to credit the different parts of my being to one specific person. But I can make educated guesses. My mother is one of five, three sisters and two brothers. Three sisters who are strong, not strong women, no, strong people. Against any measure, the women in my family are formidable. Born in the 1950s (and '61), they could have missed that train. But they didn't. Maybe some pop-psychologists would critique my grandparents for having high expectations, but they cannot be faulted for their non-discriminatory approach: their daughters were not exempt from becoming fiercely independent and successful individuals.

I had a glass of wine with my aunt yesterday, at one point she asked if I was dating anyone. I told her no, that I'm too busy, that if I wanted to be in a relationship, I'd be in one. She just laughed. "That's the thing with us Kramer women, isn't it? We don't need a partner, we're happy alone." She's right. Somewhere between my grandpa and my grandma, my mother and her sisters learnt that they were fully capable of flourishing in the world by themselves. And flourish they do. It's not just my grandpa, it's not just my mom and her family. But I wouldn't be the woman I am if my mother wasn't the woman she is, and she wouldn't be that woman if her father had treated his daughters like men treated women in the 1950s.

There are no roses, literal or otherwise, that will need looking after now that my grandpa's gone. My granny kept sane through five children and a career of professional and personal caring, so she'll be fine. We'll all be fine.

So I don't cry for the roses, no. I cry because, like eight year old Jen, I'm sad.