A few months ago we were chatting, and something prompted you to remind me that you wouldn’t live forever. You said you’d like to clear out some of your things in preparation, and asked if there was anything of yours that I wanted. You pointed out a few items around the room: dusty, once-loved recipe books; quirky china ornaments; you even opened a kitchen cupboard to show me a selection of canned and jarred food. I left with a macaroni cheese sauce, because leaving with something meant you had given me something, and you were happiest when you were giving. As we said goodbye, you told me to think about anything else I might want. I didn’t have an answer at the time, but I know now.

I remember staying at your house one Saturday night, when I was six years old. There was a storm outside, and as the thunder roared across the charcoal sky and uncompromising rain started hammering on the window, you pottered in with your cup of tea and a small plate of crackers. You didn’t say anything; you just sat, eating your crackers, sipping your tea, being there for me in the fiercely gentle way you always were. I didn’t stay awake much longer, because having you in the corner was enough. Having you in my corner was always enough. I want to be kind -innately kind – like you were in that moment, and in so many others throughout our lives. I want to bring light to darkness, like you did.

I remember dancing with you in your lounge as a girl: giggling and twirling and shaking our limbs with wild abandon. I forever want to be a dancer in the ballroom of my own living room. I want your gift of making magic in mediocrity; to paint the hues of the every day in the same vibrant colours you did.  

Granny, I want, for all of us, your beautiful, wonderful, intangible things. Your selflessness; your wit; your enduring curiosity. I want to see bluebells shooting skyward and feel grateful for the return of spring: to bask in sunshine and gaze at birds and know, with your confidence, how quietly spectacular the world is. I want to be silly and witty, and to laugh until there are tears on my cheeks, over nothing in particular. I want to be brave and resilient on the days it might be easier not to. I want to say ‘love you’ and ‘I’m proud of you’ openly like you did, and to always offer people an extra biscuit, because you and I both know a house isn’t a home without a stash of sugary treats.

I want to clutch hands with the people I love and join in with the hokey cokey, even when I’m silver-haired and nearly ninety with arthritic knees, because that really is what it’s all about. Love. Joy. Laughter. Togetherness. I want a life that holds those things – everything you taught me – at its core.

I want your ordinary, because your ordinary was – simply – extraordinary.