gifts from those who are gone

The process of clearing your parents’ house is a long and sad one.

My partner’s dad’s home is at some distance from us, in Dorset. So, unlike when my own parents died, there is a lot of travel involved.

It is hard on everyone.

Some of the contents of the house are already finding their way back to us. Although tinged with sadness at the reason behind their arrival, they can also bring a smile.

Like photographs.

Grandpa was hardly ever without a camera in his hand. And he liked nothing more than to film or photograph his grandchildren.

There was a set of pictures on Grandpa’s wall that I always coveted.

They were taken when Nanna and Grandpa stayed at our house to look after lad, whilst we were away celebrating my birthday. I mentioned them to my partner and he brought them back with him.

To honour their arrival and make them more at home, I decided to make a little fabric-based change to the orange pine frame in which they were housed.

So now we can all look at the pictures and remember lad when he was little, now that he isn’t so little any more.

And we’ll remember Grandpa, who took the pictures… and Nanna, also gone.

And we’ll remember all of the gifts they gave us.

no words

I only vaguely remember being nine years old.

It was the end of the 1970s. I was at primary school, although they called it junior school then.

Lucky enough to be happy and secure in my home life, I had no worries to speak of. At least, none more traumatic than having to share a bedroom with my sister (which I was in any case used to, and never really minded).

Nor any issues to deal with more pressing than which sweets to buy with my pocket money that week.

I lived, with my mum, dad, sister and nanna (dad’s widowed mother) in a smallish suburban house.

Life felt comfortable, perhaps verging on the dull. Nothing much happened.

I felt happy and I felt immortal. At nine years old, there was nothing to challenge that feeling. As nothing should.

So how do I, knowing all this, explain death to a nine year old?

My nine year old.

Who loves his Grandpa hugely, because he always had time for him. Who, last night, after he was in bed, lost his Grandpa, his last remaining grandparent, to the cruel disease that is cancer.

Who does not yet know this.

If I have been a little tardy in my blogging over the past few days, it is because I knew this moment was approaching. It has been constantly on my mind. It pales all else into triviality.

We had spoken of illness and what was to come, but now it has come. And I must find the words.

I will just have to try to deal with it in the same way I try to deal with parenting generally.

To be honest. To be loving. To be kind.

And to be there when he needs me.

stitches and sadness

I spent quite a lot of time during the last couple of days just waiting.

It gave me time to look closely at every stitch of an amazing piece of art.

Entitled The Blackmore Vale Triptych, each of three panels is a collage of stitched images of Dorset, set against a stylised background of a map of the county.

It really blew me away.
The subjects range from the everyday…

To the ancient…

From the traditionally pretty…

To the amusingly quirky…

Each tiny panel (the one above is around 4 inches square) is a miniature marvel.

It took my mind off the reason for all the waiting.

My partner’s dad was being admitted to the hospice in Dorset in which the Triptych is displayed.

His cancer is terminal. It was a hard day for everyone.

Especially trying to explain it all to lad, who loves his grandad dearly.

We went looking for a distraction. And found it, taking turns, lad and I, spotting our favourite images in the embroidered panels, and then taking photos of them.

I am grateful to the Blackmore Vale branch of the Embroiderers’ Guild for a providing such a beautiful distraction.

journey’s end…

So we’re back.

The journey was long and tiring. The airline food was largely inedible. The house is cold. The fridge is empty. All just as expected.

The morning brought a few tears.

Then it was time to unpack.

Whilst transferring clothing from suitcase to washing machine, I found a little note from my niece. She must have slipped it into my suitcase when I wasn’t looking.

More tears.

It’s more than just post-holiday blues…

My sister and her family are just so far away. Distant in both time and space. Who knows how long it will be before we will see them again. I miss them like losing a part of myself.

But, as my sister keeps telling me can happen sometimes, when you need it most the Universe reaches out and makes you a gift of just what you need.

Mine emerged from one of lad’s shorts pockets as I emptied it for the wash:

Just a couple of forgotten Christmas Day fortune cookie mottos.

But so much more.

Good to remember how lucky I am. To have seen and held my family. To have stored up so many memories.

It is a wonderful thing, to love and be loved. ♥

where the heart is not

I don’t want to go home.

Home is where the heart is, and my heart is right here.

But here is not home.

I am trying not to think of this as I am packing to go back.

Back to the cold – and home.

Where my heart is not.

safe and sound

It has been a long journey, whether measured in hours, miles, or emotion.

There’s nothing quite like the feeling of reconnecting with those you love.

Tears have been shed.

My heart is full.

We landed this morning, which is yesterday evening in the UK (we are ten hours ahead here).

Whilst I have been away my sister’s children have become giants. I barely recognise them.

I have brought the rain with me.

Time now to chill and sleep.