Love

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 “Love is a verb” she repeats to herself, taking deep breaths, desperately trying to regain emotional control. “So act like you love her”. Her hands, balled into fists, cover her eyes as the tears of frustration start to fall in the darkness and privacy of her grandmothers spare bedroom.

She silently conjures her mother, memories faded after years of not physically seeing her, separated by death. “Make me be caring like you. Make me like you. You can do this, I can’t. She’s your mother”.

This version of Nana, it turns out, can’t hold onto a piece of information for longer than a few minutes. The repetition. The confusion. The question marks around the state of the house and car. None of us knew how bad things had gotten.

This is the woman who baked shortbread and Afghan biscuits because her grandchildren loved them, and it made them smile to see the familiar burnt orange coloured Tupperware’s, with layers of the precious biscuits beneath wrapped in crinkly baking paper. Who hand knitted jackets, and scarves, and memorably, part of an Octopus costume for a school play, with “love in every stitch”, as she always said.

She has been the epitome of love – of forehead kisses, of bandages on scraped knees, of saying “I brought you a jumper, its cold out there”. The roles may be reversed now, unexpectedly and without the decency of a warning. But the old girl needs us now, so stop carrying on, get back in there tomorrow, and get on with it.

A smile pricks at her cheeks. Her mother has been conjured. “Yes, boss”

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