Granpop's carnival

It's my Granpop's funeral tomorrow.
(or his "carnival" as Cole called it. A title I much prefer.)

I have been gracious and grown up and philosophical about him dying - he was 94.
Yet today, my throat has had a permanent lump and my bottom lip a definite wobble.
A photo in the paper of a soldier coming home and scooping up his little daughter made my eyes fill.
Ro left a note on my bed with drawn-on wonky hearts and declarations of love - she is very generous with her love letters (I intend to keep them all to get me through her teenage years).
An Abba song I'm not even particularly fond of, came on the radio and it reminded me of my Mum - Granpop's daughter - and I imagined them together and bawled.
(And I was driving on the fast lane of the A64.)

I guess this is all pretty standard, healthy and normal - gosh, did I just describe myself as normal? I digress...

My Mother's sisters will be at the funeral tomorrow.
My Aunties.
The Aunts who sound like her, look a bit like her (not as beautiful, of course) and remind me of the time when she was here.
The Aunts who didn't keep in touch with me after my Mum/their sister died and I was 12 years old.
The Aunts who didn't help to educate me about the implications of breast and ovarian cancer - for me and my daughter.
Me, bitter?
Yes, a bit. Sometimes.

I know the day is for Him and I will attend with dignity and grace.
And then I will come back home to my little family to whom I am So Very Grateful.
(And then I will drink gin and look at old photos and draw moustaches on the aunties' pics and make crass jokes at their expense. With maturity and dignity of course.)

Farewell Granpop. The Original GiddyKipper x x