*TRIGGER WARNING: Discussions of death, grief and bereavement*

It was 9:32 a.m. on a cold November Tuesday morning, and my phone was ringing. As soon as I turned over to see “Mum” flashing across the screen, I knew something wasn’t right. As a second-year university student in the middle of a second or third lockdown due to the pandemic (I forget which one) I rarely got out of bed before midday, and my mum knew this. She even told me that she would never call before 1 p.m. in case I wasn’t awake. But today was different. Today, something felt particularly off.

I didn’t even need to say hello.

“He’s gone, hasn’t he.” No question implied.

“Yes, about ten minutes ago.”

“Are you okay?”

“No. Are you?”

“No.”

Silence.

“Okay. Well, I need to tell your brother and then call your dad.”

“Okay. Well, call me if you need to. I love you.”

“I love you too. Bye.”

I hung up and burst into tears. My grandad was one of the strongest, most intelligent, kindest people I knew, and he was gone. Just like that.

It wasn’t unexpected. I had spoken to him, well, at him, on the phone the night before. But it was still awful. Some part of me had hoped, had prayed, that he would get better. In that moment, I thought that if I just went to sleep, I would wake up and it would all have been a terrible dream. My mum would have called me at 1pm when she knew I would be up to say that he was doing better and on the road to recovery. Yes, sleep, that would make everything better.

I lay in bed till 10am, staring at the ceiling, but no luck. I was still conscious, and my phone still said that I had received a phone call at 9:32am that lasted for 53 seconds. I didn’t know what to do. Do I get dressed? Do I have breakfast? Do I brush my teeth? What do you do when someone you love dies?

I put on my multi-coloured fluffy dressing gown with my ‘Friends’ slippers and shuffled across the landing to my housemate’s bedroom, knocking loudly on her door. She opened it to a puffy-eyed, red-faced girl, shivering from the permanent uni house draught.

“You alright?”

“No. Can I sit with you? My grandad just died.”

“Oh god. Are you alright?”

“No.”

We stood in silence for a good minute. Then,

“Do you want to watch a prison documentary with me? I have a lecture tomorrow and I have to watch it before then.”

“Sure.”

I don’t remember what it was called, or what happened. I don’t think she does either. We sat in silence, not watching the documentary together, neither of us daring to breathe too loudly. After about an hour, I didn’t say anything, I just got up and walked back to my room.

I spent the day in bed. I think I went to Morrisons at some point to attempt to get some food, wandering the aisles aimlessly in my pyjamas and slippers. I don’t remember what I bought, or who I talked to. All I remember is coming up the hill from Morrisons and seeing a beautiful sunset, like one I had never seen before.

The sky was pink, and blue, and yellow, and purple, and orange, all at the same time. The clouds were fluffy and strong and defined bubbles in the sky. The sun was huge, a giant yellow and orange orb, streaming sunbeams across this beautiful kaleidoscope. That wasn’t some unearthly force, or godly being, or heavenly light. That was my grandad letting me know that he was okay and that he was safe. And that he was right there, on that busy road with me in that moment.

I don’t believe in a god, or a church, or organised religion, but I believe in my grandad. I know he’s somewhere better than this world. He has to be because I can’t bear to think of an alternative. Since he left, the world isn’t as safe of a place as I remember. I don’t laugh as loud, I don’t smile as often. I don’t feel truly happy anymore. A few days after he died, I remember asking my mum when everything would be okay again. I know that sounds childish, more of a question that a 10 year old would ask, rather than a 20 year old, but I didn’t know the answer. When would I be okay again? When would I feel happy again? How could I ever be happy again?

Where do I think he is, specifically? I’m not sure. But, as is true under the laws of science, energy cannot be created or destroyed. So he is somewhere, whether that be a heaven, or an afterlife, or somewhere in the natural world. And I know I’ll see him again when I join him, exactly how I remember.

For now, I have to be content with seeing him every day in the robins that sing in my garden. I see him in the white feathers that fall at my feet on my walk to work. I see him in the sycamore trees that my cat loves to climb. I see him every evening in the sunset, when the sky goes pink and orange and purple. Even now, three years later, I see him everywhere.

Grief is a funny thing. When someone tells you that they’ve lost someone they love, you feel sorry for them in that moment, and you try your best to comfort them. But your life goes on. Your world doesn’t stop turning. You can sympathise because you have lost people you love, but in that moment, you cannot truly empathise with them. Purely because grief is so specific to each person, and specific in how each person chooses to cope. It is not a straight road, and there’s no manual or guide to cope with losing a loved one.

I still cry myself to sleep sometimes. I still relive that phone call with my mum. I still hear my grandad laughing or calling my name. I still see that specific sunset on the day he died, if I close my eyes tightly enough.

I greet Grief like an old friend every time I feel His presence, because I know He’ll be back. And no matter how many years go by, I don’t think anything will change. I will never be that same girl I was before that phone call. I will never not have this hole in my heart. But grief implements itself into your routine, it slowly becomes part of you. And while it is a horrible adjustment, you do learn to live with it. Eventually.

Life is very beautiful. And with life, comes death. And while death seems lonely, and we are taught from a young age to fear the inevitable, I choose to think the opposite. I believe that death teaches us that we are never truly alone.