Standing in the middle of my dead grandmother’s empty lounge room. We’re there to clean the last of her belongings out before the house is officially sold and the keys handed over on Monday.
My father, stands on one side of the room. I stand on the other, with the baby crawling at my feet.
My daughter, in the middle of the lounge room, earnestly starts talking.
We will go see MyNanny in the hospital! And she will get better. She will come home and she will play with me.
She looks at me.
Mummy, we are cleaning up MyNanny’s house for her. She will come home soon and we will play with bubbles? MyNanny is not very sick anymore. The doctors will make her better!
I glance at my father, the same time as he glances at me. Normally, I talk to her about MyNanny and how she died. That she won’t be coming home. That she is gone and we’re very sad.
Today though, I can’t bring myself to do it. Not here, standing in the emptiness of her house.
Mummy. MyNanny will come home!? And we will play together, with bubbles! And she will not need to be in bed anymore. We will help her get out of bed. And then we will play!
Tears well in my eyes and I can’t bring myself to talk. I bend and sweep the hair out of the baby’s eyes. My father and I look at each other. Then, I change the subject for my daughter.
Sweetheart? Show Poppy where you hurt your arm.
Look Poppy! I hurt myself. I did fall.
Mmmmmm, says my father. Ouch. How did you do that?
I fell!
She fell. I say. Trying to climb on top of the closet, using the couch arms and a pile of linen.
Oh.
Crisis averted. We’re not crying anymore.
At least,
not on the outside.
It is very hard on so many levels.
Ivy and Noah talk about their brother alot and I find myself (after answering several questions) saying that’s enough, enough for Mummy’s heart today and they look at me with their big eyes for a moment and then skip away, accepting that the grief can be all too much.
It’s hard on the kids, it’s hard on you. It’s hard on everyone left behind.
Hugs.
Oh Veronica. I wish I could give you a hug now. Be brave hon.XO
I’m just going to repeat what Brenda said. I wish I could give you a hug.
Oh sweetheart. **huge hugs** xxx
It seems so hard doesn’t it? I love your daughters innocence and yet it can be so hard on you. Hugs.
I’m feeling this right now. Colin keeps saying things like this.The other night he asked about something we have in our house now, which was hers, “My great gramma is all better. We can go see her. Okay, mom?” I couldn’t answer either.
Then we were looking at photos on Facebook yesterday. There’s one there of Colin playing with his grandpa. “My Papa is not dead, mom. He’s fine. I want to see him again.”
And all I can say is, “So do I, baby.”
Their innocence just breaks your heart..
((Hugs))
This was an exceptionally touching and moving introduction to your site.
My apologies – I meant to get round to visiting much earlier but I’m glad I finally managed it.
Wishing you all the very best wishes,
Matthew
So sad Veronica.
Sometimes I wish to go back to my childhood innocence where everything is all right and the sad facts of life does not exist. Experiencing tragedies in our life is hard to accept.
Simple, very well written and packed with emotion. My eyes are watering (in a manly way!)
hang in there
Comments on this entry are closed.