My Gran

In face of it, we were nothing at all alike.

Nothing at all.

She;
born to a world between wars, a middle child of ten;
a poor family in a small rented cottage flat, rich only in family;
a society where the poor left school at fourteen and worked instead,
where women stopped work when they married and had children.

Me;
born to a world largely at peace, eldest of five;
a middle class family in a home they owned, rich in opportunity and ambition;
a society where the clever could find almost unlimited learning,
where women were afforded largely the same possibilities as men.

Our worlds were different worlds
but we shared one soul.

I sometimes felt the black sheep of my family:
slow to tease the younger ones, always eager to please,
my love of learning, language, literature, science and maths
above tennis and football
confounded my brother, sister, father.
"Come out and play cricket with us", they urged, and, with silent sigh
I'd leave the well-worn pages of excitement and adventure
for more humdrum occupation.

But she always understood. "What are you reading, Joanna?" she'd ask, and I'd answer:
"The Famous Five" or "Black Beauty" or "Mary Poppins",
"A Little Princess", "The Jungle Book", "Alice in Wonderland". It didn't matter.
"And is it good?" she asked. That's what she wanted to know, you see:
that I enjoyed it.
She enjoyed it too. She'd share her memories of the same book,
recommend some other. And every Christmas, she'd provide something new.

Little things she said made sense to me.
"When I was young", she told me, "I'd always do my chores and work straight away
To get back to my book."
I tried this for a while and found it excellent advice:
Chore done, I was left alone once more to read again.

She loved crosswords. I love puzzles, and sometimes I'd come visit
and help her get the clues she didn't know.
Each one I found was a triumph to my teenage soul --
For my gran knew everything about every book and film and actor
and left little for me.

She loved the stars. I did too, and later learned astronomy.
I stood outside one clear, clear night and watched with her and
mentioned some of what I'd learned. She nodded, smiled,
But didn't really care. The stars spoke to her in a language not known in science,
and that language didn't need the science.
The stars connected her with something vast; timeless; beautiful.

But more than anything else, she cared.
Not about who I should be, or could be, or would become,
But simply that I was, and I was happy.

When she died, she left a hole in my life.
I'm slowly learning to fill that hole with what I can find in myself. It's hard.
But I've learned a lot, and now,
I think I can do it.
I think I can hold her here, in my head, as she always was,
and let her go.

It's only been a year.