Gramps died last night.
The last hero. The last tie.
I feel surprisingly empty, maybe it'll come.
But it feels like I took my goodbyes so long ago. Every time I have seen him I have said my farewell like it would be the last - since autumn 2003 when he had the first stroke, and I travelled all tumbling with the speed and chaos to Norway from Finland; with bus and ferry and train and car. They thought he wouldn't wake up properly. Then he looked up at us and scowled, and after that he became better again.
He knew me every time I visited, the only thing wrong with him was simply age, a worn body breaking down.
He became 101 and almost 1/2 year on that.
I will try to get to the funeral, somehow. Show my respect. I am not close to many people and he was one of the few I loved without reservations. He taught me so much. Going to the funeral however brings its own problems. Not going would be disrespectful and I would lose respect to myself, for one thing. I imagine it'd draw some comment, if not spoken out loud then thought, from relations as well. But going means I have to face them. Not something I am looking forwards to. At all.
I should re-dye my hair this saturday. He would have liked that, me coming with green hair. He always grinned happily at my bright blue and green hair. He was even happier when I did things like wearing it with a bright yellow sweater. If I wasn't so interested in being unobtrusive (trying to avoid more notice than necessary from said relations) I might go like that. Bright happy colours, knowing he preferred that to my normal austere blacks and greys.
Baah, baah, the sheep returns. The black sheep with the green head.