Spencer MacLeod

Vanitas

“…And may he forever rest in peace. Amen.” The stillness of mourning filled the cold air, the sounds of sobs barely making their way through the steady rain that fell from the November sky. It was the afternoon of my grandfather’s memorial service, the suddenness of it all still sinking in even as I watch the casket get lowered into the earth. Weeks before he was his same old chipper self, dancing around as well as his aging body could allow to the tunes of his earlier years and then one morning - as I made my way over to his estate in at Champions Farm in West Sussex - I found him in his favourite armchair with a book in his lap, cold as ice. At first it had appeared he had fallen asleep in that chair, as was common for him to do, but as circumstance had it, this time was different.