大象传媒

Tim Parks reflects on his children's reaction to the death of their grandfather

'Kids,' I said, 'this is your Grandad's funeral. Understand? His funeral. Your dear old nonno.' So far the only death they've known was the hamster's. And the first time they tried to bury him it turned out he wasn't dead.

One of the most unsettling things in my own childhood was the sight, or perhaps even worse the sound, of my parents' crying. The only memory I have of my grandfather's death - the one grandfather I knew - is the noise of sobbing from behind a bedroom door.

Now, on arrival at my wife's family's home in Pescara, the first thing we see is a death notice wrapped around a lamppost. It's the tradition here to advertise deaths of loved ones on small black-bordered posters beneath an image of a suffering Christ. 'Caro Adelmo, 77 years old,' it says, 'mourned and remembered by wife, children, grandchildren.' Climbing out of the car, the grandchildren in question read the words with curious faces. Michele shakes his head. But it's their mother's tears as she comes to greet us that finally bring it home.

They want to see their grandfather one last time. This is a strange scene. The hospital provides small rooms with candles and religious images. Nonno is laid out in the best suit that he never wore, an incongruous gold crucifix lying on his chest. There is a temptation here, I always think, to feel that one's emotions are under scrutiny and act up. Certainly some people do that. But the children are very natural. 'Poor nonnino,' says little Lucia. The older ones burst into tears. 'He was so still,' Michele tells me later. 'I mean it was him, only he was so still.'

Later Michele asks. 'How old do you have to be to die of a heart attack?' 'Any age.' 'Could you?' 'Mid-forties is prime time for heart attacks.' 'Is it?' But I notice that he isn't really worried by this. More tentatively, he asks, 'Could I?' 'At thirteen? Possible, but extremely unlikely.' The younger Stefi isn't even interested, as if death didn't regard her. 'You'll die before us, won't you?' my son asks. 'Indeed I will, I reassure him.' For the first time it occurs to me that the older generations are there for that: to shield the young from death with the comforting reflection that others will go before.