One of the Kind Ones

 

My Nan is one of the kind ones.

She stopped helping out at the church recently.

But only because it meant leaving the house early.

And in the winter, it's just too cold.

In the kitchen. That's where she helped out.

Vegetables. She must have peeled thousands of them.

Now though, just a few every night, she'll eat on her own.

 

Her hair is always beautiful. Always.

Perhaps that's why she doesn't like the rain.

My Nan always knows about the weather.

In London, Geneva, Stourbridge, Lymington.

Our family's towns and cities.

The places we're dotted around.

 

My Nan used to make the best apple pie in the universe.

But then a crucial ingredient went missing.

It disappeared from the shelves of the shops.

She isn't happy with her pastry anymore.

 

My Nan loves my Grandad.

As much as the first day she met him.

Though he is alive no longer, sadly.

And things have been this way for some time.

We used to eat eggs, chips and beans together.

And segmented club biscuits, as Frank listened to the football scores.

He used to tell lots of jokes that weren't funny.

But he laughed.

So you laughed.

And in that sense, the world laughed some more.

 

My Nan played games with me whenever during my childhood.

I don't remember her ever getting bored.

She played volleyball with me over the bed in her bedroom.

We imagined the court markings, the sand and the scores.

I'll never forget that pink and blue ball we played with.

It was soft and shiny and comforting and small.

 

I had a sense of her kindness, even then.

I love her so much.

She says the funniest things.

But they're funniest, if you know her.

If you know her, you love her.

 

My Nan loves a glass of whisky with a plate of biscuits and cheese.

I suppose it helps her to sleep at night.

At the very least, it puts her at ease.

She doesn't always know what to eat these days.

That has a lot to do with her teeth.

 

My Nan doesn't care much for water anymore.

As I mentioned, she's never been too taken with the rain.

So showering has become somewhat troublesome of late.

But remarkably, at her age, it's about the only thing she finds a pain.

 

My Nan wears the most beautiful of raincoats.

Without fail, they're immaculate and colourful.

It's always made me think.

If you aim to be a lovely person, dress well for it!

 

For her Eightieth birthday, we took my Nan to Venice.

One day, she tripped, stepping onto the beach.

She fell quickly, landing headfirst but came up smiling.

Her face covered and dusty with sand.

She couldn't stop laughing.

That's my Nan.

Always laughing.

Always smiling.

The most positive human being I know.

 

She lives in a retirement home.

And she's done so for the past fifteen years.

But in truth, she has help from no-one.

Instead, she helps others less able, with their laundry.

Many of the good friends she's made there have passed away.

Yet still she smiles.

She smiles, always.

She is lonely, just like we all are.

Sometimes.

But never she moans.

Instead, she smiles.

The strongest of all people I know.

 

Her home is a village called Hagley.

And it's a place that has everything she needs.

There's a fish monger's, a butcher's and a post office.

A train station, from which she can travel most places.

When I go visit her, she takes me for coffee.

As we walk down the street, people say hello to her.

She addresses them all with the spongiest of hellos.

Afterwards, we sit in the sun and enjoy a beer together.

And over lunch, we talk about anything and everything.

 

We don't disagree often my Nan and I.

We both respect what the other has to say.

In fact, if ever we differ in opinion.

There'll be confusion and sometimes laughter.

But definitely, we will not dwell.

 

After lunch, we might look through family photos.

Sitting beside each other, in her loveliest of homes.

She'll always put out tea and biscuits.

Her apartment is a symbol of tidiness.

Our love is never ending.

 

I don't call my Nan as much as I should.

I honestly don't know why.

I picture her smile when I hear her voice.

I hope she knows I'm always thinking of her.

Always.

 

I often wish I could spend more time with my Nan.

Although geography does sometimes interfere.

But our distance can only ever be measured in miles.

Our closeness means we're always near.

 

My Nan's name is Megan Davies and she is eighty-seven years old.

I have wondered about the younger Megan at times.

My Nan, only if she were my age.

What it would be like having a conversation with her.

Being a friend of hers.

Would everything still be the same.

Or if this younger Megan were to speak with the older version of myself.

Are our connections so, because of blood.

Or has fate related us, leaving nothing to coincidence?

What an extraordinary age gap between us.

What affinity, despite it all!

 

They say that nobody's perfect.

And perfection is seen uniquely through all people's eyes.

But if I age to become half the person my Nan is, I'll be proud.

I'll be content, feel noble and satisfied.

 

My Nan named her daughter, Carol.

And my Mother named her daughter, Karina.

My sister named her daughter, Maya.

As of yet, my Nan hasn't met her.

The little one.

For she came into this world only weeks ago.

Maya Megan Greenin.

That's her full name, to be exact. She will grow up to be a wonderful person.