This time I went home, I managed to visit the home of my paternal grandparents.
Last year, around the same time, I had return back to work when my holiday ended, without attending the funeral of my grandfather. This year, that house still triggered strong memories of him; how I used to follow him around in the garden, how he used to tell me about the flocks of peacocks that visited the garden (and how he used to give me feathers that he picked off the ground), how he used to write letters to me and send me old stamps, how he used to pluck fruits for us, how he used to make toys and wooden crafts on his makeshift carpentry table outside, how he used to tell us stories of places, how he used to show off his mathematical puzzles and that toothless smile he gave after thinking hard for awhile when asked about something.
Except for the lack of his physical presence, nothing much has changed around the house. There were peacocks. There were fruits on the trees he had planted. The structures he had built still stood there.
On a positive note though, a new member in the house - a very joyful one year old great-grand-daughter born a few days after he died - filled his void in the house and didn't fail to keep the adults entertained.
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