I must have been about 11 years old when my Great Grandpa died. I remember going to the hospital to see him, we weren’t going to the funeral that had already been decided. I remember standing with my sister watching from the nurses station. We were eventually allowed to see him, we walked through this huge ward, bed after bed after bed. I don’t think he spoke to us or even really knew who we were. We stood with our hands in our pockets at the end of his bed. He looked cold, his feet were a mottled blue & purple colour, wrinkly and old, he had dry skin over the soles of his feet. I don’t know why they weren’t under the covers.
He had been in the First World War and the Second, he escaped from a prisoner of War Camp or something, he had a red plait of hair in a memory box, it was his wifes. He missed her, I think he was looking forward to seeing her.
His toenails were so long, why hadn’t anyone cut them? I think I held his hand.
We used to sit on his knee when we were younger, he would scare us by taking his teeth out. He always looked smart, always in brown, like my Grandad (his son) he has also gone. I really cried at his funeral.
It’s funny isn’t it what can spark a memory. My son just lost a grandfather. I covered his feet.
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