Living History

Somehow, I was aware of it, even when in my first memory.  I would absorb the atmosphere, the living history, my link to a past when I didn’t exist and could only imagine.

She was old when I came into this world, but time was old in her world.

It was if she hadn’t moved on from the 1940s – and I guess in some ways she hadn’t wanted to – she couldn’t let go of the love of her life – and I was mesmerised by her.

I only reached Gisborne once I had entered her busy home and given her a kiss.  She was Gisborne to me.  And, after he had gone, she was the closest I had to my grandfather.

Oh, how beautiful it was when she ambled into the kitchen at 11 am for breakfast in her silky robe, with droopy eyelids and a warm smile.  Slowly making her way through a piece of toast, cut and buttered one bite at a time.  Her tired eyes ever observant, listening mostly, with half of her mind always somewhere else, interjecting with a chuckle and a wink when someone amused her.

My young mind was dominated by thoughts of the next bike ride, trip to the pool, playground visit, or how many neighbour’s plums we could pull off as we leaned out the car window; a visit wasn’t complete without “movie night”, when she would show us her slides and we were allowed chocolate at intermission.

I picked up on, but said nothing of, anything that would complicate my childlike, simplistic view of her… Children aren’t stupid, but more like think it’s not their place.  That’s what adults are for, and who are looked to for support.  Not that she shared her problems with anyone.

As both of our worlds got older, my imagination started to step back in time to her.  I was only visiting, and viewing through the filter of naivety and self-preservation, but it was at least more than enough, and maybe as much as I could handle.

Her silent busyness as she sorted out her “office” of handwritten letters, and ended up reliving its contents, pulled away from the wartime music that filled the kitchen; the blushing when her gentleman friend came over and complimented her – accompanied with a sadness that this was all she could get now; the steady tone when she made a rare comment about her knowing more than the boss; her brave face but watermarked eyes the last time we visited with Granddad; her pure love for my Mum, the closest she had to a daughter – and the only person I felt met her approval.  I certainly didn’t feel I did.

It was a few years after I’d started crying as we’d wave goodbye from our departing car that she passed away.  When she’d first had to move into a home after a fall, we’d felt horrible, and the few times we’d visited, we’d felt worse.  The first time, she looked utterly depressed: “They all just sit in front of the screen with gaping mouthes.”  Her intelligent mind was crying, and she was only too aware that there was no escape.  It was an inevitable decline to dementia, but those beautiful warm smiles were still there for us, with the warmest for Mum.

One night, through the dirty train window, I saw Granddad walking on a brightly-lit platform.  I looked away in surprise, then looked back to confirm, but he was gone.  It was the next morning that Mum rang to tell me that Aunty F had died.

When we got to Gisborne, we still stopped at the lookout and waved to her, as we’d always done, but I knew she wasn’t there.  Once more, everything shifted from life to history.