I remembered sitting on my grandfathers lap – I must have been about four – and he was talking about God. That’s all I ever remember him doing, really, is talking about God. It’s just about the only thing about him I can really grasp with certainty. But I was four and I was on his lap in the living room of the house he shared with my Gran for I don’t even know how long. He was telling me how God was everywhere. He waved his skinny hand in the air, telling me God was around us right there and then. God was in him, he said, taking my hand and putting it to his chest. I remember I could feel his heartbeat under the starched white shirt he was wearing but that’s probably something I put in later myself. And God was in me too, he told me, poking me in the belly. He laughed, wheezy and full of joy but I was scared as hell. God was inside me? That’s a lot for a four year old brain to wrap itself around.
I remembered when my grandfather died. I had just turned six. My father was getting me ready and I kept asking questions. Would we see my grandfather going to heaven? Did it mean that my father didn’t have a father anymore? Were we never ever ever going to see him again ever? My father had tears in his eyes. I’ve only seen that three times in my life and that was the first time. He told me that my grandfather was still alive inside him and inside me. He touched my chest. I asked was there enough room in me, because God was there too.