“I talk to her all the time, like she’s still here,” said Grampa Joe, a couple of years after Gram died. “The neighbours think I’m crazy.” And he smiled, like he didn’t mind a bit.

She has been here, after all. I sense her now and then, sitting quietly and catching up on me and my life. Then she goes on to someone else. It’s those solitary moments when a person long gone inexplicably pops into your head, without provocation. They’re walking along beside you, willing you to notice them.

That’s when you start talking.

If it were up to me, everyone would design their own heaven. Grampa would probably choose his pipe, a big basement and his workbench, a solid boat, and his Billee by his side. And the chance to come and visit his earthbound family now and then, just to make sure we all have our ducks in a row.

Two days ago Evan wrapped his chubby, spitty hand around Grampa’s finger and said Baah! (baby for ‘gotcha’).

Grampa smiled. In that determined little grip, immortality. His legacy, standing in his lap and holding his hand.

He’s gone now, and we’re all very sad. I can imagine Gram’s voice in greeting, though, when he went through that door.

“Hellooo, Helloo!” She’ll have so much to show him.