It was a sunny beautiful morning of last Thursday when I got a sudden phone call from my mother. She said my grandmother was dead in hospital, and asked me to come back to join a funeral. I said yes, and packed my clothes and daily stuff, then headed back to my hometown Nagoya with my brother.
She was 93-year-old when she passed away. Born in 1925, she used to tell me stories in wartime: how she ran into a homemade shelter by covering her body with blankets to avoid fire from American bombardments: The electricity company she worked after Second World War. I always liked listening to her tender voice, and whenever she started talking, I couldn’t help coming to her.
Thankfully, my family isn’t morally strict, and since many relatives came to the funeral (which isn’t usual), we decided to go to a Japanese restaurant to talk more about her, rather than being depressed individually. I know I wasn’t supposed to have fun to eat, I had many kinds of food from salad to beef pot nevertheless. For me, it was my own way of saying goodbye to my lovely grandmother.
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