The old grandmother was packed off by the whole family.
I remember how, without any pretence, they spoke plainly to her about how shed become a nuisance, and that the spring had finally arrived, meaning she could go off to the countryside and stay there until late autumn. The grandchildren hardly showed her any warmth, and her daughter-in-law never cared for her. Her son was always away for business, and even when he was home, his manner toward his mother was no kinder than the rest of the family.
She was a burden to them. She understood everything, and endured her hardships with what little strength she had left, waiting each year for spring it felt like the promise of something better, something true.
That spring came early. I remember her sitting by the entrance to the block of flats, gazing at the warm sky, soaking up the sunshine. She looked like a bedraggled sparrow thin, in a threadbare old coat, battered boots with rubber galoshes pulled over them.
Despite her familys lack of affection, the neighbours were always kind to her. They greeted her, asked how she was getting on, gave her a hand up the stairs to her flat on the fifth floor. Sometimes the neighbourhood boys carried her shopping bags for her when they saw her coming back from the market as they returned from school.
No matter her age, she managed the housework herself cooking, washing, tidying. Those were her duties. Her daughter-in-law scarcely bothered with them.
Youre here all day, so you might as well do everything, her daughter-in-law would say, brazenly dropping her shoes in the hall after work.
The grandchildren never spoke to her. When their friends came round, she stayed quietly in her room, having once heard her grandson say that she made them look bad.
She never objected to anyone. Mostly she kept silent. At night, when the household slept, she would quietly cry in her little room, mourning her fate.
She was sent to the station by taxi, so no one would have to take her on the bus. Her luggage was scant: an old bag and a small bundle of odds and ends.
Leaning on her stick, she made her way slowly along the platform. She rested on a bench until her train arrived, then boarded the carriage. She gazed out the window with gentle, wistful eyes. As the train pulled away, she drew from her bag a crumpled photograph; her son, grandchildren, and daughter-in-law were smiling. Recently, she only saw their smiles there. She kissed the photograph and tucked it carefully away.
Stepping off at her stop, she quietly walked toward the village. Someone offered her a lift nearly to her door. She opened the garden gate and followed the muddy path to the cottage. Everything here was familiar and dear to her. It was here that she was needed, if only by the sagging walls, the weathered fence, and the crooked porch. Here, they waited for her.
The village meant everything. Shed been born here; children were born here, her husband died here. Shed spent nearly half her life in this very place, and mourned her elder son, who fate didnt allow to see another day.
She opened the shutters, stoked the fire, and settled by the window on the old bench. Memories stirred her children had once sat on that bench, eaten at that table, slept in those beds. Theyd run on those floorboards, gazed through these windows. She heard echoes of childrens voices, when she was simply mum, needed more than anyone, beloved and close.
The sun shone through the same window, and many springs had passed here, full of happiness and care. She smiled warmly to greet another village spring.
***
She did not wake up the next morning. She remained forever in her home, her own land. On the table lay a heap of old photographs and one recent, yet creased, the same picture where, just yesterday, her familys faces smiled.
While we live, there is so much we can still do ask forgiveness, give thanks, speak our hearts. While we live, we must not postpone such things, for when a person departs, they never return, and the stones left in our hearts weigh heavily.
We must live with faith, truth, and kindness from the heart. To love, to wait, to value the feelings of others, to remember those who gave us life and helped us stand tall.
