I watched the peachy skies and the rays of hope fade as mum told me.
I had just been marvelling at all the flowers blooming, and all the while, one of my favourites was wilting away. The sun, no water, all the love in the world can’t revive her now. She’s quiet, and her soft petal-like skin stops moving gently with her breath.
I feel incredibly lucky to have grown up surrounded by such beautiful, strong female role models.
Granny and her daughters (my mum and aunts) have all been blessed with kindness, gentleness, intelligence and humour. True beauty does not boast, so I’ll do it for them.
We’ve never needed much of an excuse for a family gathering, and many birthdays, Christmasses, Easters, and any other occasions usually happened at Myrtle Cottage. It’s a second home to all of us.
In the summer, my brother and I would stay with Granny and Grandad. I remember a lot of elevenses, playing in the garden and trips to the beach, where there would always be a picnic. Granny would make sandwiches with brown bread and cut them into quarters. She’d wrap them in clingfilm and stick a tiny white label on with our name written very carefully. And there were always biscuits, and an ice cream too, if we behaved.
Climbing into one of their many spare beds, saying “nightie nightie” and getting the response of “pyjama pyjama.” One of hundreds of silly jokes.
Who’s going to fill the biscuit tin now? Who’s going to tend the flowers and tell bad jokes? Who’s going to hold my hands as the big waves roll in?
Who’s going to ask us to go around the garden, collecting snails in a margarine tub in exchange for 20p?
We used to go for walks through the trees and along the boardwalk. Once, we found a small nest on the ground. Granny very gently picked it up, and inside was a hibernating dormouse. The way she held that tiny, fragile creature; her quiet reassurance.
When I knew that she was dying, I felt my heart break. I don’t know what I believe happens after you die, but it’s a comforting thought that she might be back in the arms of her sweetheart.
The last time I saw Granny, her stairlift had just been fitted, which meant we could sit in her cosy living room together. She couldn’t get out into her beautiful garden very easily, so I picked and arranged some vases of flowers and placed them on the coffee table in front of her.
Her face lit up. She was smaller and weaker, but she was still smiling.
The evening after the funeral, we went to the beach and stared out to sea, reflecting on everything we felt. We ate fish and chips, and had another drink as the sun went down.
The pale moon and the slow breeze were perfect.
She will become the earth; she will become more beautiful flowers.
I’ll see her kind eyes when I look to the sea, and will remember how safe she made me feel amongst the rough waves.
