28October2025
Ive been mulling over the days chaos while sitting at the kitchen table, the kettle humming like a restless moth. Grandma Mary, whos now in her eightyseventh year, slipped out of bed with a rasp in her voice, Youve got to have the baby as soon as possible. The words felt absurd, a relic of a time she could barely remember, yet my grandson and greatgrandson kept nudging her, tapping her with a cane as if they could prod the past back to life.
Stay in your blue stockings and youll be thinking of your own old age when its too late, theyd joke, their words hanging heavy in the air. Now Mary has stopped getting up, muttering at the household like a disgruntled cat, Why did I raise you lot, you little pests, so you could nap till noon? The clatter of pots at half past six in the morning has become a grim chorus that wakes the whole house.
Little Emily, my fiveyearold greatgranddaughter, asked in her shy voice, Grandma, why dont you swearing at us any more?
Mary sighed, Im about to kick the bucket, love. Its my time, dear, my time. There was a mixture of melancholy about the inevitable end and a stubborn hope that perhaps something brighter lay beyond the battered stew weve forgotten how to make.
Emily darted off to the cramped kitchen where the rest of the family lingered. Grandma Marys groundhogs dead! she announced, reporting the latest reconnaissance of the household.
What groundhog? asked Victor Harris, the eldest son and unofficial head of the clan, raising his bushy eyebrows. He looked like a figure out of an old folk tale, the kind where the wind whistles through the hedgerows.
Probably an old one, Emily shrugged, as if shed never seen the little creature that Mary never bothered to show her. The older generation exchanged a weary glance.
The next morning a composed, wellmeaning doctor dropped by. Shes not feeling well, he said after a brief examination.
Obviously, Victor muttered, slapping his thigh, thats why we called you! The doctor looked thoughtfully at him, then at his wife, and said, Its agerelated. I dont see any serious abnormalities. What are the symptoms?
She replied, voice cracking, She stopped telling me when to make lunch and dinner! All her life shes poked my nose with criticism, saying my hands arent right, and now she wont even step into the kitchen. Her words fell heavy on the table.
The family convened, the doctors presence turning the conversation into a grim council. Exhausted, we all lay down as if we could simply fall into sleep and be done with it.
In the dead of night Victor woke to the familiar shuffling of slippers. This time, however, there was no urgent demand to rise and face the day. Mum? he whispered, stepping into the dark hallway.
Hmm? a weary voice replied from the gloom.
Whats that?
Right, I thought Id slip out for a little date with Mike Jacobs while youre all asleep, Grandma Mary murmured, halflaughing as she shuffled toward the bathroom. What else is there to do?
Victor flicked on the kitchen light, set the kettle to boil, and sank into his chair, head in his hands. Starved? the old woman called from the doorway, eyeing him.
Im waiting for you. What was that, Mum?
Mary shuffled to the table, sighing, Ive been cooped up in my room for five days, then a pigeon smacked into the windowbang! I thought that was a death omen. I lay there, waiting, day after day, and nowhere I am, up in the middle of the night, wondering if that omen would have taken me to the moors to burn my life away under the sheets. She laughed weakly. Put the tea on, make it strong.
Three days weve barely spoken, son, but well make up for it, she added.
Victor finally slipped into bed around half past five in the morning, while Mary stayed in the kitchen, determined to see the breakfast made herselfnothing else would do, for those little hands of hers could never properly feed the children any other way.
I sit here now, pen in hand, feeling the weight of generations pressed together in this cramped house, each of us trying to make sense of endings, of stubbornness, and of the simple comfort of a hot cup of tea.
