Today is a day for family, and to remember.
I don’t know any other way but to turn to words in sad times.
My grandmother holds a very special place in my heart, and she makes me realise that happy memories make all the difference.
Fragments of memory,
Tiny wisps of life, swirling in the air.
Anxious calls, missing children,
Lost phone numbers, forgotten names.
Clanging purple tins, the same fork lounging on the rim.
Juicy brown meat lumps scraped into a bowl.
Fresh milk poured. The cat stalking the glass door.
A tiny pink tongue lapping the lake of white.
A flour-covered recipe on the kitchen table.
Two steaming apple pies taken from the oven.
Mine a miniature of hers, round.
Nana’s proud smile, a wink, her giggle.
A mother’s exit, now’s the chance, a quick hand into a cardboard box.
Wardrobe door closed again, two girls grin.
Packets of Buttons, yellow Communion, sweet white chocolate.
Our favourite, all these years.
Porcelain dolls on my window ledge.
Christmas cards on her mantelpiece.
Padre Pio, Saint Anthony, her prayer book.
A silence, with only echoed fireworks in the night.
A blue chair, a big window.
An old Irish tune. Her pride. She knows it.
A singing voice that could shatter with fragility.
Curled hair, round glasses, red lipstick. Earrings.
Everyone else. Nothing for herself.
Smile through the dark days.
“You might as well be laughing as crying.”
She cannot remember, but I will.