I was going to enter this into Retreat Wests quarterly competition but with it being a personal piece didn’t think it would have faired well amongst fiction.  I also felt an overwhelming need to write about this person who had such an influence in my life when I was growing up, hence me sharing this with you all tonight.


I remember the avenue, number 77. Each Saturday we gathered; blood relatives visiting for a natter.  The kettle bubbled many times and melodious tunes from the radio offered a comforting blanket to your kitchen’s backdrop.  I forced down another sweet cuppa; you’d forgotten I didn’t take sugar. 

I hated the smell of lard as it simmered away on the stove; the offerings too delicious though, we often fought over the last chip. In summer we’d bask in the warmth on sunbeds positioned in a surreptitious suntrap.  The perfumed roses sweetened our day.  You’d fetch your weathered purse from time to time; proffer a pound or two and we’d chase the hum of the ice cream van offering refreshment.

Cousin’s content, we made crowns from daisies, held buttercups to our chin. We laughed as whimsical clouds danced in the sky.  Sometimes I’d watch you curl your hair and apply your liner; a slick of lipstick perfected your persona. 

You waited for Ann to taxi you to the local watering hole; on the blower in haste if your carriage was late.  You enjoyed a half glass of lager top, wouldn’t drink it by the pint. Grandad always treated you like the lady you were.  Beverages lined the tables as good times were had by all listening to the Irish vocalist as he sang your songs.  You joined in, you knew all the choruses.

It hit us hard when he passed away; a shock, so sudden. Perhaps that was a blessing?  We felt held at ransom, a precious jewel stolen from our hearts.  It hit you harder. 

We no longer gathered over tea. The radio played but only sombre songs were heard. You weren’t able to make another cuppa.  Chips came in newspaper packaging; no fighting over the last one.  Oh, how I would love to glimpse your weathered purse these days: bathe in that suntrap, smelling those roses.  I should have spent longer, watched you take your time, applying your makeup, fixing your hair.

We no longer laugh as clouds drift by, there’s no longer a secret garden to pick those whitened daisies and buttercups from. If only I was able to buy you a drink now. 

I wish I could hear your voice again, just one last time.  In your grief you weren’t able to express your sorrow; a strokes cruel joke.  You suffered in silence for too many years and although we were saddened when dusk finally called your name, there was relief also.

I was thankful to see a congregation of friends and family when we said our final goodbyes. A standing ovation for you.  I take solace that you two will be together at last, the only grandparents I knew.  Finally reunited.  In love and memories I remember you; until we meet again.

21 thoughts on “Reunion…

  1. mandibelle16

    Whimsical and nostalgic. Packed with pain and emotion, but also wonderful memories. There is solace in the end for you grandparents and for you, and that’s a wonderful way to end. With hope, remembering her.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. That was lovely. It really evoked the time and place. I found myself getting moist eyes. I think you should enter it for the competition, a personal piece often packs far more emotional punch than fiction, and who are they to know it isn’t fiction anyway? It was a beautful piece of writing.

    Liked by 1 person

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