Loss and Longing, Love and Light
Nana (my mother’s mother) was the great love of my early childhood. We all loved her, the whole family. I was only four when we lost her.
I recall her long, long hair when she let it out at night, brushed it slowly and firmly, then plaited it again and looped the plait into a coil on her neck.
I liked to watch the lingering strokes of the brush; how deftly yet leisurely she divided the strands and laid them over each other to gradually form the plait; the placing of the long hairpins; and the last gesture as she firmly patted her bun into place.
I recall the soft lap I curled up in; the warm, cradling arms. ‘Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, look upon a little child,’ she crooned, lulling me to sleep.
I couldn’t really grasp the language of the next bit: ‘Pity my simplicity’ (not too long a word for me even then, only I thought it meant I was stupid) ‘and suffer me to come to Thee’ (I didn’t like the idea of anyone suffering, thanks a lot!). But that was irrelevant. Mainly, Nana’s lap was the place to be: my place.
After Nana died, my Mum lay a long time in a darkened room. ‘Don’t cry,’ said my Dad to me, ‘you’ll upset her. Go and play.’ I wandered listlessly around the lawn and along the paths. I told myself she was in Heaven. I listened to hear her in the clouds. I felt, slightly, that I did; but aloft, so distant….
Years later – all the years following her loss – I heard the family tales: her melodic voice; the collection of little dogs that followed her everywhere; her compassion for listening (out of the blue) to strangers’ troubles, in such a way that they felt healed. People were naturally, spontaneously drawn to confide in her, I was told. I knew; she listened to me too, although I was only small.
I didn’t have her long, but she was a light to me – a gentle light yet strong, shining continually over all my life.
They said she thought herself ugly. Laughable! Of all people in the whole world, she was the most radiantly beautiful.
Written (in exactly 369 words excluding title) for Weekly Scribblings #49 at Poets and Storytellers United: my own prompt where I invite people to write something – anything – purposefully using one particular letter repeatedly. My letter here, of course, is L. I didn't have any idea beforehand of how it might impact the writing – and I'm not sure I have now, though I hope it might lend a softness. Once I knew what, or rather who, I wanted to write about (not the first time I've written of her) I picked that letter because it starts the word Love.