Although nearly forty eight age years old, I still have one living grandparent.
Yesterday was my grandma's ninety first birthday, so I skived off work and went to visit her. For the past few years she has been living in a home specialising in dementia care. She's content and safe there.
I knew the day would come, and yesterday was that day. At no point when I was there did she have a clue who I was. It was very saddening, but as I drove back with only my thoughts for company, I decided that I would always strive to remember the strong and vibrant woman she was for most of my life.
The one who made me drive up the mountain and load bags of wild pony manure for the garden, the one who filled the house with the aroma of freshly baked pasties, sausage rolls and sweet, unctuous rice pudding ( first dibs on the skin off the top), the one who rode her scooter at fifteen miles an hour, cursing the impatient motorists behind her, the one who walked for miles with her doting little terrier, the one who grew the most amazing vegetables, the one who kept a wild area in the corner of the garden, that grew as it liked,the one who was always quietly proud of her nursing career, the one who took every opportunity to travel, often on a shoestring, the one who always forgave me everything, the one who had such a mischievous humour, right up until a few weeks ago.