Little rays of light

Sometimes, when times get dark, you need a little ray of light. This is the story of how our family got through a time of difficulty, when my brother decided to pull a prank to lighten the mood.

My mum's father died when I was 12 and my little brother was 9. At the time I was too young to really understand how I felt about it, other than that the sudden sensation of somebody being there, then never being there again, was startling and unreal. I sat on the bed in my grandma's spare room, and for the first time the world was blank and confusing.

My little brother was even less equipped to deal with the loss than I was - previous to this tragedy our only experience of death was when my ex-gerbil, which was found in the bargain bin at the pet store and rescued from being snake food because I felt sorry for it, despite my dad begging me to choose one that looked less evil and wasn't hissing, committed suicide by biting me, jumping onto the dining room table, running to the end, looking over the edge, pausing and jumping. Looking down at it as it died, aside from the distress of my own pet to want to end its existence, the main thing I felt was a weird distance between me and it, a sensation that something final had the power to end all things for me, but the feeling lasted just a moment before it ebbed away.

A whole lot of silence

We spent the first couple of weeks after my grandad's passing at my grandma's house, while my mum helped her to organise things. My grandma was utterly distraught - they'd met during the war when she was a land girl and he was a soldier, married and never been apart since. Aside from the occasional argument, they were inseparable.

When it came to the funeral, my little brother had been cooped up, surrounded by grieving women for two weeks. He had a pocket full of stink bombs, some fart gas, and a growing need to do something to cheer everybody up, because for a little boy that liked to be active and outside playing football, this was the most stifling of situations.

After the funeral, everyone filed back to my grandma's house, where she'd laid on a spread. The atmosphere was thick and heavy with sadness, my grandma was dressed head to toe in black, with a grim look on her face that didn't belong there. She was nicknamed The Little Spitfire because of her fiery temperament and vitality - she was normally funny, sweet and entirely too aggressive for a tiny little lady.

In the centre of the table there wobbled and glistened a gigantic jelly - grandma had made it the focal point of the funeral feast, due to her insistence that it was grandad's favourite. Although I knew his favourite sweet was Werther's Originals and mint humbugs. Everyone knew that.

Lightening the mood

My brother weighed up his options. He could stay inside with the sad, old people, eat the depressing food and stand silently like everyone else, or he could do something about it. My brother didn't try to escape into the garden to play football, he wanted to do something to fix the situation, for everyone.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out the can of fart gas and sprayed it onto the jelly. I was the only one that saw him do it. There were three still moments, while the scent of the spray permeated the thick, heavy air and grandma's guests started to gag.

'What is that stench?' Somebody cried.
'Did you fart, Marv?' One woman asked her husband.
'EVERYBODY OUT!' Yelled my mum, who had realised straight away what was going on.

The entire funeral procession moved single-file through the narrow front hall of my grandma's dark little house and out into the sunlight, where nobody knew whether to look stern or amused. My little brother was twitching with anxiety next to my mother, who had hold of his hand tightly while she waited for my grandmother to arrive and deliver the verdict - was it funny, or was he to be punished?

There were a few tears, and there was a little bit of shouting. There was some initial resentment. But, eventually, everyone began to laugh and feel better. Being out in the sunlight, surrounded by warmth and each other, reminded us that life went on, that it was worth experiencing, and that the innocent mischief of a little boy showed us that we needed to live for today, not live for yesterday.

I am personally very thankful to my brother for what he did, because when the moment happened, two years later, when our father was suddenly snatched from us on Boxing Day Night by an undetected thrombosis that moved to his lungs, there was something funny associated with death, for me to hold onto. It may not be the widely accepted way to grieve, but finding humour in death reminds us that we are human, and that we are still very much alive. If I go first, I hope my brother will pull a prank at my funeral, and that everyone there will laugh.