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| (Friday was quiet... Saturday had a surprise birthday barbecue in it.) |
Granma (aka Mummy) Grace in her wheelchair, layered in coat, hat, scarf, gloves, mittens, light filtering glasses and blanket; she grins, showing a gap, proving over and over that real beauty and perfection are not the same.
Mr does the chair pushing, to the Post Office on Cowick Street, and joins a queue.
It is sixty years to the day since our Grace had waddled up the snow littered street to fetch the midwife and the midwife said you’ve got one coming have you, well pop home and put the kettle on, I’ll be down in a bit.
Grace laughs: yes, she says, it was snowing.
Dog and me wander, she is nose to ground, head full of information she gleans from urine.
(A little collie greets her, but she’s barely distracted, chasing a story peed into brick.)
Mr does the chair pushing, to the Post Office on Cowick Street, and joins a queue.
It is sixty years to the day since our Grace had waddled up the snow littered street to fetch the midwife and the midwife said you’ve got one coming have you, well pop home and put the kettle on, I’ll be down in a bit.
Grace laughs: yes, she says, it was snowing.
Dog and me wander, she is nose to ground, head full of information she gleans from urine.
(A little collie greets her, but she’s barely distracted, chasing a story peed into brick.)
Drizzle hovers. The wind is pushing it down the neck of my coat. It sticks in my hair.
Then Mr takes Dog, and I take Grace, and she balances a basket on her knee while we choose - there’s so much choice we impose a boundary of our own - just because the word pizza was mentioned earlier, it’s Italian-ish, a feast for Mr’s birthday.
Simple stuff.
Bread. Olives.
Grace has loved olives but she takes only plain food now, and tablets.
We hide the treats in a bag patterned in kittens, head back over the bridge where the wind is whirling, where a cormorant dives and swans are getting bread off people and an aeroplane flies over, ghosted in low cloud. Choppy water flows - me and Dog feel the call of it, the cold, muddy whoosh to the soul.
Dog rolls her eyes, regrets her domestication.
Warm in the little flat, we drape damp fabrics over door tops.
60 years, says Mr.
We look out at the rain and the pigeons gathered.
Seventeen geese, yesterday, Grace says; two swans, a wren, a pair of robins.
Dog puts her nose to the door and falls asleep.
We had a call, earlier, from Laos: held up a magic mirror and talked face to face with our travelling daughter, and she’s been ill and is now recovering and planning for new places: a life of waterfalls and visa requirements.
Small adventures for us today.
We put the kettle on.
Simple stuff.
Bread. Olives.
Grace has loved olives but she takes only plain food now, and tablets.
We hide the treats in a bag patterned in kittens, head back over the bridge where the wind is whirling, where a cormorant dives and swans are getting bread off people and an aeroplane flies over, ghosted in low cloud. Choppy water flows - me and Dog feel the call of it, the cold, muddy whoosh to the soul.
Dog rolls her eyes, regrets her domestication.
Warm in the little flat, we drape damp fabrics over door tops.
60 years, says Mr.
We look out at the rain and the pigeons gathered.
Seventeen geese, yesterday, Grace says; two swans, a wren, a pair of robins.
Dog puts her nose to the door and falls asleep.
We had a call, earlier, from Laos: held up a magic mirror and talked face to face with our travelling daughter, and she’s been ill and is now recovering and planning for new places: a life of waterfalls and visa requirements.
Small adventures for us today.
We put the kettle on.
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| Cake made by Abbey Mac (eldest daughter) - tasted as good as it looked! |
Comments
My favorite lines? Real beauty and perfection are not the same... chasing a story peed into brick...the cold, muddy whoosh to the soul. Gee, kiddo, you should write a book... :)
A book you say? ;-) I'd give it a go! x