Hold My Hand

Hold my hand. I’ll keep you safe. Let’s cross the road together.

My Nana, who brought me with her to get the messages.

Hold my hand. I’ll show you how to stir the cake.

My Nana, who showed me how to bake simple treats.

Hold my hand. Sit beside me, and tell me all about what you’ve been up to.

My Nana, who championed our achievements, and adored our children; her great grandchildren.

A cup of tea?

A decent cup of tea?

Nana, who relished a cuppa, made properly, and if possible from a delicate china cup, which was almost as delicate as she was at times.

Yet she had a steely interior, strong will, and woe betide anybody who dissatisfied her.

She could cut through you with just a look and a set of her jaw.

Last week she told me I was her shining star; her special name for me. She told me she loved me.

Then in the past few days she didn’t speak to ask for me to hold her hand, but her hand still reached for mine.

Now she’s not here to hold my hand anymore and is with my Grandad who passed away just a few short months ago.

Still I can feel hers in mine, guiding me, and giving us all strength for the days ahead as we formally say goodbye.

You’ll understand if perhaps I don’t blog for a few days.

Maureen Shortall, 1924-2017, Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam dílis.