Front-row seat at Poppa's send-off

This story is dedicated to Poppa, Nanny-Gran, Mum, my family and all of those who loved and knew Poppa well.

Every March 31 I remember the day I had to help Poppa get dressed for his performance. I remember how pleased he looked and, even without him saying anything, I knew he appreciated us helping him.

The sun streamed down, heating the car and frying us inside. It was quiet apart from the occasional beep or click coming from Eden as she played with her Nintendo. Mum was staring at the road ahead, her hands clenched on the steering wheel. Dad drummed his fingers on the dashboard in time to a non-existent song. Having abandoned my book, I stared out the window from behind my glasses at the traffic.

The car passed by a line of takeaway stores, a petrol station and a block of apartments, then slowed as we turned into a driveway. A large stone building loomed ahead.

I peered out the window at my surroundings as we came to a stop in the car park. It was pretty, I had to admit. Poppa had chosen well.

The front of the building had a large stained-glass window that looked out at a trickling fountain. Ivy climbed the walls, wrapping itself around statues and anything else in its path.

I spotted my cousins. Brooklyne was perched on the side of the fountain, her hand in the water. She was giggling as she tried to spray Christian who was leaning against a wall staring at nothing. I saw him snap at Brooklyne and demand she stop her flicking.

I turned away from them and looked at Mum. She was looking in the rear vision mirror applying more lip colour. She saw my fixed stare in the reflection and gave me a tight-lipped smile.

Eden was packing her belongings in her bag while Dad was running his fingers through his greying hair. Mum put away her makeup and turned in her seat to look at Eden and me.

"You ready?" "Yup," we answered.

When we entered the room, Poppa was waiting for us. He was lying on the bed, the blanket pulled up to his chin. My aunty immediately shuffled over and pecked him on his cheek. Poppa had been unwell for a while and, as usual, Mum had to joke about it.

"Jeez, Dad, you look like death warmed up," she grinned. Although it made my aunty and I smile, judging by Poppa's lack of response, he was not amused. The silence was broken by a man in a black suit. He marched in, gave me a nod, then turned to Mum and my aunty to tell them they had 10 minutes to help Poppa.

"If you need a hand, let me know. Otherwise, I'll be back soon." With that he turned and left. Mum pulled a face at his turned back.

We all turned back to Poppa, and looked at the clothing laid out on the table: his favourite merino sweatshirt, his comfy black pants, some woollen socks, his Giorgio aftershave and a comb. Mum held them up and shuffled towards Poppa, brandishing his clothes in front of him.

"So what do you think? You're going to look great. Not too over-the-top, and not too ..."

She froze mid-sentence, and quickly glanced at my aunty and me. We all understood. "Um, Dad, are you wearing underpants?" my aunty asked. The room was silent as we held our breath.

Mum smiled at Poppa, then turned to me. "Alright then. Georgia, you're going to have to turn around while I check." Obediently, I turned towards the wall and waited, staring at the chair in front of me. I wondered how many times someone had sat in that chair. Had they done what we were doing now? Had they sat there talking to their loved one?

My thoughts were interrupted by my auntie's snort of laughter. Poppa had indeed been wearing underwear.

Finally, Poppa was ready. "You look handsome, Dad," Mum told him. After a bit of a struggle we had managed to get him dressed. Mum had combed his hair, and my aunty had battled with his socks, which refused to go over his heel.

"Come on, Dad, can you co-operate a little?" she demanded. I giggled and continued stroking Poppa's clenched hand. I peered at his face, wondering what he might be thinking. Was he listening?

The moment was broken by a polite but business-like "tap tap" on the door. The funeral director stepped inside the room, his hands clasped.

"It's time," he said. His tone stopped our chattering. The room was eerily silent. The emotions we had so cleverly disguised revealed themselves and Mum started sobbing, soon joined by my aunty. The other grandchildren came into the room with a letter or small token to leave with Poppa.

They soon left the room, leaving Mum and I with him. She rummaged in her bag and emerged with a television remote control which she placed in Poppa's icy hands. It had been Poppa's joke - he was in charge of the remote and which channel he watched. It seemed only right that he should have it in the new place he was going to. She gave him a final peck and left the room, desperately wiping her eyes with a tissue.

I was alone with Poppa. I looked at him for the final time, having one last special moment with him, wishing I could have one last cuddle, one last laugh, one last sing-along. I paused, gripping his hand, then leaned over and kissed him on his rigid cheek.

"We'll see you out there, Poppa. We'll be in the front row."

Georgia Chappell, Year 12, Cambridge High School