I was sad to learn of an older lady I know, passing away in hospital. I asked my Mum on the phone whether she thought she’d suffered in the early hours of the morning.
“I don’t think she would have known much about it,” said my Mum.
That is a good thing. She had some health troubles, and for some time I think she was unable to leave the house. I suddenly felt very guilty for not having gone to see her; she always had a lot of time for me, and she used to beam with affection whenever she met me in the high street.
I was remembering the way she used to grip my hand. In fact, it was just the same way my Grandma and my Aunty Roma, and Old Ray, and many of the passed-on people I knew, would hold on. Partly to steady themselves of course, partly to feel the touch of someone else for as long as possible, and partly out of twinkly-eyed affection, the wrinkled fingers would curl surprisingly tight - wrapped around my wrist, locked in place with only a hint of tremble.
I wonder if I’ll do that one day. It seems inappropriate when you’re younger, but somehow, when old age has set in, it is expected that you’ll grip a young person tight, look them in the eye and treasure every single second of their company. I hope that I’ll amuse myself at the blank looking teenagers who have no idea of how much life I’ve lived or which secrets I carry. Actually I hope that they’ll see love, just as I’ve seen in sparkling eyes so many times before.
Perhaps when the world is in its twilight, there are just no inhibitions left. Two things we rarely do these days - prolonged touch and direct eye contact. Yet there’s so much pure humanity in those things - so much shared wonder and connection.
I feel sad that she’s gone. I should have gone to see her; she would have liked that, just as all the passed-on people would have. But I’m grateful for what she taught me about the boldness and bravery of love. I do hope I’ll be able to pass at least a little of that on, whether I reach those years or not.
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