Granny

“She’s here!”

My four-year-old squeals, rocketing off the couch as the white, unremarkable sedan pulls into the driveway, horn tooting three times playfully announcing the grand arrival. She’s driven over two hours for this sleepover that’s been on our calendar for weeks. Thelma has excitedly marked off each day with a thick pink gel pen in her shaky, fresh penmanship and this morning was her last strike through the Saturday square – the day finally upon us.

As if cemented to the floor, Thelma doesn’t go outside to greet her, though her trembling body desperately wants to. Instead, she looks from afar through the loungeroom window, a sudden bashfulness overwhelming her. A deeply feeling little person, Thelma is caught by the push and pull of her very being. Having waited for this day for close to a month, now that it’s here, she is paralysed by the magnitude of her emotions.

Anyone else might remark snarkily on this reticence: “Cat got your tongue?” or “Is that all you’ve got for your Grandmother?” but not our Granny. Weighed down by her bags, full of four-year-old goodies and a small rollie lime green suitcase, Granny waves warmly, shuffling up the chipped terrazzo stairs slowly, the faded memory of a broken hip now dictating her lumbered pace.

“Where’s my Thelma? Where’s my gorgeous granddaughter? Has anyone seen my Thelma?”

Thelma giggles goofily, still affixed to the floorboards, as Granny theatrically takes a seat on our couch, her voice booming comically like a pantomime performer.

“I think I’ll just rest here a while. Now, where is my Thelma? I sure have missed her. Granny sure would love a cuddle.”

Stifled giggles fill the room.

“Is she under here?”

With a mimed magnifying glass in hand, Granny inspects under cushions, under the coffee table, under coasters in a silly slapstick fashion like Inspector Clouseau.

“Oh, well, I guess she’s not here then. That’s very sad!”

Granny plops down onto the couch melodramatically. Within seconds, Thelma pops out from behind the plump forest green armchair and runs into the arms of her Granny.

“I’m here, Granny!”

Suddenly released from the cursed quicksand holding her in place, the sheepish spell is broken and Thelma reveals herself, finally comfortable to be exactly who she is.

A sturdy gold chain full of charms adorns Granny’s neck, gently rattling with each movement. Resting contentedly in Granny’s lap, Thelma palms the precious bundle of jewelled trinkets delicately, sliding each one meticulously along the 24-carat thread until she finds the locket.

“Is it still in there, Granny?”

Granny opens the oval pendant, revealing a tiny scroll, with a purple crayon loveheart scribbled in the centre.

“It’s still there!” Thelma exclaims excitedly.

“You gave me your heart, my gorgeous granddaughter, when you were only two.”

“When I was two? I was just a baby!”

Thelma laughs wildly at the sheer absurdity of the prospect that she was ever younger than this precise moment in time.

“And I’ve been carrying your heart ever since.”

Thelma squeezes her Granny with a tiny-handed tightness like only a four-year-old can do.

I listen from the kitchen and smile at their heart connection; love linked by a locket.

A swallowed sob escapes me.

My heart aches for my own mother, now in the twilight of her Alzheimer’s, though it swells just as much, too.

I’m so grateful for our Granny,

As we farewell our Nanny,

But I miss my mum.

I miss my mum, too much, too much.

My heart aches and breaks in her present absence.

Yet I know this much to be true;

Anticipatory grief for over 10 years is a brutal beast,

But our beloved big-hearted Granny comes pretty close to making up for two.