Fishing from heaven. The music sounded and they began to enter - the robed man and the six friends of my grandfather
by
amsandison1 (student)
Fishing from Heaven
The frost clung to the surroundings as I made my way down the old crooked path. It was early morning and the sun was attempting to wedge its way through the clouds: it remained ice cold. There was little life to be seen - most animals were hidden away from the dangers and cruelty of winter. They had collected their food and were snuggled away ready to sleep the months through. At that moment I wished I could join them. Why couldn’t I run away and hide until I was ready to face life again? As I trod over the cold granite with the fellow mourners I could see nothing of happiness. Everything hung in dismay as if even nature knew this was a wretched and lonely place. I imagined the gloomy individuals walking this route over the decades. It was a path that had to be travelled but very few were ready or willing to face its destination. Instead we all hoped something would suddenly change and that our fate would be reversed. The daunting doors appeared ahead and I made my way inside along with the others – all of us coated in black. I shivered, no longer because of the temperature but rather fear, as I made my way inside the thick stone walls. The mighty roof towered over me shadowy and oppressive. I found my pew and sat down alone to wait. The tranquilising smell of burning incense combined with my tired state almost lulled me to unconsciousness but a stern voice suddenly called for the beginning of the service and I turned to face the altar. It was covered in a white cloth which hung loosely over the sides clearly too big. A cross made up the centrepiece and a candle stood on either side. I’d never been to a church before but I knew granddad had. I imagined him looking at this cross and, like me, wondering why life had to happen the way it did. The music sounded and they began to enter - the robed man and the six friends of my grandfather. I only knew one of them. They had gone to school together and granddad would always tell stories of their misbehaving - tricking the teacher and missing classes. I saw his friend dim with dread no longer a schoolboy with a future of brightness ahead. His head hung low as he made his way down the aisle. The lid of the coffin was lifted and his face tightened as he saw his friend for the last time. Granddad’s face was withered and frail, his lips rose pink and dry. They had dressed him in his favourite suit especially for the occasion. His body lay stiff, fragile and delicate – but strangely imposing. This was not how I remembered him. Vulnerability and helplessness had overcome him. His intelligent being was hidden - deposed by death.
