I wake up, I look around. I see trees, I see sheep, I see fields, I see cars. I look forward. My family is talking blissfully and discussing all the interesting activities they plan to do when we arrive. I think about where we are going, then briefly remember, we’re driving down to Cornwall, one of my favourite places in the whole wide world. When we arrive, we greet our grandparents, at which house we are staying. I know what I want to do immediately. There is a race track, about 10 miles down the hill from their house, and every year, we visit at least once to do something that doesn’t exist back home. I love racing. Racing is something that you cannot always experience, yet every time you do, you always are left with the feeling of wanting to go again. This happens to me, every single year. Back in my own hometown, you cannot race. Not within even a hundred miles is there somewhere you can. But here? You can go every single day. 

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It was a winter morning. The frost dusted the lawn in front of me, the wind slowly sending chills down my arms and legs. I walked to the field, the field where I used to play and I used to hang about for hours each day. Today, it was not green, but white. Covered in a thick, glossy blanket of snow. The field was empty. It hadn’t snowed in years, but this year was different. This year, the snow met us. Little did I know, the snow was the least of my worries. I walk back to my house, open the door, dust off my shoes and step inside. I see my father at the computer, rapidly typing into a website. At the time, it seemed just like any other day. I walk ahead and take a look at the screen. I see a red and white website with the text lining all round it, “Virgin Trains.” This piqued my interest, and my dad stopped typing and turned around. He said to me, “Grandma’s condition is getting worse. I am booking a train today and I will be there by tomorrow morning.” I don’t question him, as I understood that although I wasn’t sure what her condition was, I knew it was far too important to distract him. The day slips by and by the next morning, I see my mother, downstairs at the dining table, on a call with someone. I hear my father’s voice come from the speaker, it seems to falter every couple of words he spoke. It turns out that last night, my grandmother had passed away. I didn’t quite understand what this meant at the time, but I would soon find out. 

Fast forward a few weeks, my family drives down to a place nearby where my grandparents lived called Carn Brea. I knew my grandmother loved this place, but I never understood why. We were wearing button up shirts and ironed pants, myself still not truly realising the reason why. We went inside the chapel, and I saw hundreds of people, from close relatives to ancient looking men and women I had never seen before in my life. The service began, and I started to see the true meaning of that phone call. Service lasts for a few hours, and by the end, almost everyone is in tears. My Dad went up to say a few words alongside his brothers, with it closing off with my grandfather dismissing everyone to go to a small valley of grass nearby. This is where my grandmother would rest. My grandfather, alongside my father and his 3 brothers were given small pots. They opened these pots one by one and slowly spread the ashes into the field. The wind blew fast and hard, and one by one the pots were emptied into the distance. The ashes blew hard and fast until they found their rest in the fields of flowers at Carn Brea. Only then did I understand that one of my favourite people of all was truly gone, and the little time I had to cherish her was allI would get at all.