It broke my grandmother’s heart. I reasoned that it would probably break mine too but the guilt became too much. I imagined him out there in the ether, lost in the frost, feeling ignored. I went to see him on Boxing Day.

His tree was in the crematorium gardens; not far from George Best’s plot. It was still a sapling, bent and rigid from its gentle, white coating of frost. Intricate patterns coursed over the plaque that read “Planted in Memory of…” The frost made everything quiet. The air felt cold enough to snap.

It was just silence for some time before I felt ready to speak.

“Hello, Oul’ Boy.” My voice shook as I addressed my Grandfather. “I’m sorry that I didn’t come up on Christmas Eve...I just couldn’t…”

Silence again. What did you say to a pile of ashes?

“Silly old bugger,” I suddenly blurted. “This time last year you were alive, albeit in hospital... lying to us, saying that you were fine, while all the time… You were all alone knowing that it was going to happen. I’m so angry and so proud and lucky to have... I love you so much, Granddad. I wish that our ignorance hadn’t been the last present. I miss you.”

I couldn’t stay after that but on the way home I started to feel better for the first time. The last present appeared eternal. It was my Grandfather’s love.

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