The whole family comes together to pack Grans bags.
No one hides their feelings, telling her frankly how tiresome shes become. They mention, without guilt, that at last springs arrived, and soon shell leave for the country until late autumn. The grandchildren are distant, her daughter-in-law doesnt like her, and her son is constantly away on business trips. When hes home, he treats his mother no better than the rest.
To them, Gran is just a burden. She understands it all and endures these trials as best she can, waiting every year for spring as if its the best, most reliable, truest thing in her life.
This spring arrives early. Gran sits often by the front door, gazing at the warm English sky, soaking up the sunlight. She looks like a bedraggled sparrowthin, wearing old, patched clothes and worn-out shoes with rubber overshoes.
Her own family may lack warmth, but the neighbours treat her kindly. They always greet her, ask after her health, and help her up the stairs to her flat on the fifth floor. Sometimes, the local lads carry her shopping bag home if they spot her trudging back from the shops.
Despite her age, Gran handles all the housework: cooking, washing, tidying. Those are her duties. Her daughter-in-law rarely lifts a finger.
“Well, youre at home all day, you might as well do everything,” the daughter-in-law declares, kicking off her shoes in the hallway after work.
Grandchildren never speak with her. When friends come over, Gran stays in her room, since one grandson once said shes an embarrassment.
Gran never argues with anyone. She keeps quiet, and at night, when everyones asleep, she quietly cries in her tiny room about her fate.
They send her off to the railway station in a taxi, so they wont have to escort her by bus. She doesnt carry mucha battered old bag and a small bundle of clothes.
Leaning on her stick, Gran hobbles down the platform. She pauses at a bench and sits for a moment. Soon the train arrives. She boards with a gentle, kind look on her face and gazes out the window. As the train pulls away, Gran takes out a crumpled photograph from her bag. Her son, grandchildren, and daughter-in-law smile back at her. Lately, their smiles only exist here. She kisses the photo softly, tucks it away, and presses it to her heart.
At her stop, Gran walks slowly toward the village. Someone gives her a lift most of the way home. She opens the gate and walks along a muddy path to the old cottage. Everything here is familiarher own. Even the crooked porch and rickety fence need her. She is awaited here.
For Gran, the village means everything. She was born here; her children were born here; her husband passed away here. Shes spent nearly half her life in this place, lived through the loss of her eldest son, who never got to see these days.
Gran opens the window shutters and lights the fire. Sitting by the window on her bench, she reflects. Her children once sat on this same bench, ate at this table, slept in those beds, ran across this floor, gazed out these windows. She hears their voices echo in her mindthe voices from when she was Mum, the most important, the closest and dearest.
The sun shines just as it did back then; there have been many springshappy and busyspent in these walls. Gran smiles at the welcoming countryside spring.
***
In the morning, Gran doesnt wake. She remains forever on her own land. On the table lie old photographsand one new, though crumpled. The same one that, just yesterday, showed her family smiling at her.
While were alive, we have time for much. To ask forgiveness, to give thanks, to confess our feelings. We have no right to put such matters off until tomorrow. For once someone is gone, they never return, and heavy stones lie in our hearts, too weighty to carry.
We must live with hope, truth, and kindnessfrom our own hearts. Cherish, love, wait, value others, and remember those who gave us life and raised us up.
