5November2025
Today I watched the house wobble on the edge of the old village of Littleford, where my grandmother Mary has lived for eightyseven winters. She no longer remembers the aching rush of childbirth, yet my little son and his sprightly grandson keep pestering her, sometimes tapping her with the thin wooden cane they keep near the hearth.
Stay in your blue stocking and youll be thinking of your old age when its too late, theyd shout, halfjoking, halfserious.
This morning Mary seemed downcast. She stayed in bed, muttering at the householdWhat did I raise you for, you slithering snakes, to sleep until lunch?and the kitchen rang with clattering pots at half past six.
The family grew wary.
Grandma, asked my fiveyearold greatgranddaughter Lucy, looking up with wide eyes, why dont you scold us any more?
Mary sighed, Im about to go, child, Im about to go. The words hung heavy, as if she were grieving the slip of her life, or perhaps hoping for something beyond the pot of vegetable soup weve all forgotten how to make.
Lucy darted to the kitchen where the rest of the kin were gathered.
Grandmas groundhog is dead! she announced, reporting the latest intelligence from her tiny reconnaissance mission.
What groundhog? asked Victor, the family patriarch and my own father, raising his bushy eyebrows. He looked as if he were a character from a blackandwhite tale, the sort whose winds are said to walk the streets.
Probably just an old one, Lucy shrugged, not knowing which groundhog she meantGrandma never showed her any.
The elders exchanged a glance.
The next day a composed doctor paid us a visit. Shes not feeling well, he said, laying down his diagnosis.
Obvious, Victor muttered, slapping his own thighs. Would we even have called you otherwise?
The doctor stared thoughtfully at him, then at his wife. Its agerelated, he said firmly. I see no serious anomalies. What are the symptoms?
My mother has stopped telling me when lunch and dinner should be cooked! Shes spent her whole life poking me in the nose, saying my hands werent meant for work, and now she wont even step into the kitchen, Victors wife whispered, her voice cracking, herself now a grandmother too.
We all agreed it was a worrying sign. Exhausted by worry, we fell asleep as though wed slipped into the ground.
In the night Victor awoke to the familiar shuffling of slippers. This time, however, the sound didnt demand an immediate rise for breakfast or work.
Mum? he called softly into the hallway.
A husky voice drifted back, Well?
Whats wrong? he asked.
I think Ill slip away while youre still asleep, go on a date with that Mick Yates fellow, she murmured, halflaughing as she tried to pull herself together. Im off to the loo, where else?
Victor flicked the kitchen light on, set the kettle boiling, and sank into a chair, holding his head in his hands.
Hungry? Grandma Mary asked, standing in the doorway, eyes fixed on him.
Yes, Im waiting for you. What was that, Mum? he replied.
Mary shuffled to the table, sighing, Ive been cooped up in my room for five days. Then a pigeon flew into the windowbang! I thought it was a death omen. I lay down and waited for the day to pass, the second, the third, and then I woke up in the middle of the night thinking, What if that omen had gone off into the woods to the wild man, and Id have spent my life under the sheets? Pour me some tea, make it strong and hot. Its been three days, son, we barely talked; well catch up now.
Victor finally drifted off around half past five in the morning, while Mary remained at the kitchen bench, still trying to prepare breakfast herselfnothing else would do, for those frail little hands could never quite feed the children properly.
**Lesson:** Age may slow the body, but it never silences the mind; keep listening, keep caring, and never assume the quiet ones have given up.
