There's a stretch of raised kerb on a bend near where I live that makes me think of my nan (because nothing makes me reminisce about dead relatives more than roadside brickwork). Seeing it ignites a childhood memory of her watching me balance on it like a tightrope walker whenever we went to the post office.
It wasn't exactly the best way to traverse a busy road, though health and safety was a different beast in the 1980s. But I know she kept an eye on me. She was the prototypical nan whose warm presence I can still feel even though she died in 1987. And I have a surprising amount of memories involving her when you consider they all happened before I was six.
She would babysit me when my parents went to White Hart Lane to watch Spurs, which often involved a trip to the local shop. We took that short walk frequently. We'd sometimes visit the nearby playground on the way back, where there was a climbing frame shaped like a spider that's still in action to this day. And when I pass it with my dog, I often wonder what my nan would make of me now and what life would be like if she was still here.
Then there was the time she bought me an advent calendar when we semi-accidentally ate all the chocolates on the first day. It was a moment of shared naughtiness that symbolised the fun we had together. And time in her company was often full of creativity, from impromptu puppet shows to making daisy chains in the back garden. And when I became a big fan of the All Live Pink Windmill Show, she helped me make my very own Emu using the leg of a pair of tights for its head & neck and an old stuffed blouse for the body; Michael Parkinson, beware.
To be aware of the innate kindness of someone who died when you were five is a testament to how strong love can be. I still feel it for her, and in whatever way she still exists, I'm sure she still feels it for me. She was my tightrope-walking safety net in human form, and I still miss her. I hope she'd be happy with the man I turned out to be.
