Hot summer months were spent coaxing, pleading, nagging, and using every method of persuasion possible to convince our family to install a swing set until our grandfather finally gave in to our demands and put it up near the fishpond on our property. It wasn’t a typical swing set; it had posts made of bricks, a tiny, tiled roof for shade, and a wooden seat that could fit two people. It has been 14 years, but I can vividly recall him painting the posts of the swing light blue and the tiled roof dark blue to precisely match the color scheme of our house while my cousins and I bounced up and down in excitement, debating who should ride first.
Countless afternoons were spent sitting there gossiping, enjoying ice cream, and sipping cold coffee. Our mornings began by bringing our breakfast to the swing to eat while our grandfather paged through the newspaper. Days were filled with doodling with chalk on the concrete driveway and playing hopscotch till sunset, only returning home for dinner, covered in mosquito bites much to our moms’ dismay.
Grandparents’ homes often become the center of a child’s upbringing, acting as a link between generations, bringing together the adults and the children, and strengthening familial ties. My childhood was also shaped by a quaint baby-blue home and its dark blue roof. All my earliest experiences and memories were formed under this roof, and my grandfather was a constant throughout it all. Whether it was hand-feeding me Khichdi (an Indian dish cooked by boiling rice and lentils together) when I was unwell, helping me solve the crossword puzzles at the back of the Sunday newspaper, reciting bedtime stories from his childhood, teaching me card games, or playing badminton with me all evening. My cousins and I spent several mornings helping him plant new saplings in his garden, which usually ended up with us being covered in mud and dirt. All of our attempts to assist him would turn into disasters, but our grandfather never lost his patience. Evenings found him wrapped up in a shawl in a rocking chair, watching cricket, patiently explaining the rules, reading the scoreboard aloud for my mom in the next room, and promising to let us watch cartoons once the match ended. He was a steady presence, even after I returned home, and we shared every small achievement and daily event on our frequent phone calls.
This kind of love is irreplaceable. It comes with unparalleled acceptance, a profound sense of trust, vulnerability, stability, and security. These are people who accept you with all your flaws, without judgments and complaints. They not only celebrate you in your good times, but also stand with you during the challenging moments in your life. You become so accustomed to this sort of affection that you never contemplate the absence of it. What you don’t realize is that a phone call from your grandma on a September morning could turn all your usual summer plans into mere memories. Flights are booked hastily, and during the entire journey, you keep expecting it to be some sort of cruel joke. But it isn’t — you have lost your grandfather.
Your mind refuses to believe death; it refuses to accept his absence. You are confident that once you reach it, your grandpa will be standing at the gate, ready to engulf you in a bear hug. As soon as you get there, you dash to the living room, but there is no one sitting on the rocking chair. You check every room but are unable to find the person you are looking for. You spot your cousin weeping in a corner. You are aware that you can no longer live in denial. Your mom cries all night. You have never seen your dad cry, but he is in tears during the funeral. Someone is getting nasal spray for their stuffy nose. Your grandma cooks, but no one wants to eat. Your aunt no longer responds to anyone’s questions and is silently staring off into space. You see the blue swing amidst the gloom beckoning you to swing back to the past.
You delete a phone number because no one is going to pick up. Sometimes you drift around the house at midnight because you dreamt of him. You got elected as the class president, but there is no one to send a picture to. You want to know how often to water the jade plant you got for your study table, but you can no longer ask him.
Losing someone is like losing a part of yourself permanently. You drift at night, missing even the smallest conversations. Life is filled with reminders — a familiar voice, a shared favorite food — that pull you back to their memory. Death might seem like the end of someone’s journey, but it marks the beginning of a journey of grief, mourning, and acceptance for the loved ones left behind.
The pond has dried up, there are no fish left, the garden has been overgrown, parrots no longer sit on the trees, and there are no tomatoes in the backyard. But the swing still stands tall, although a bit wrecked, as if a testimony to all the times we have spent together. The reality of loss is not something you get over; you just learn to live with it. The void never fills; we just build our lives around it.
Death makes us delve into ourselves, reminding us to spend quality time with our family and friends, never holding back on talking to them, admiring them, or thanking them. Life is very unpredictable, and grief after bereavement makes one go through a range of different emotions, from anger and sadness to numbness and regret. The regret of missing that video call, of not spending enough time with them, and of not being beside them stays with you forever. The past, unfortunately, is impossible to change, so you can only live in the present.
The wounds heal, but the scars always remain.
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