I came back from the desert two days ago, shook the sand from my boots and scrubbed it from parts of my body that I needn’t share.
I slept and shared stories, ate Easter lunch with friends and then got pissed with other friends.
I’ve sat around and unpacked and settled into the fug I always feel when I come home, when everything is the same, the sun doesn’t shine and I don’t have a helicopter to fly around in.
You know when the phone rings and you see the name and you just *know*?
I knew it wasn’t good.
There was no reason to doubt that my Mum was phoning just to catch up, but her voice confirmed it.
“Is everything ok?”
I heard her breathe.
My Nanny, my Dad’s Mum, had a stroke this morning; found in her nursing home when the orderly came in, sunshine and chatter, to wake her up.
She’s alive, but sick…we all know the risks of treatment.
And we know she’d want to be at home.
And we know that she’s very old.
One phone call slapped me back into jangling perspective.
Every time I’ve seen her over the past years I’ve kissed her and known that this might well be the last time we speak.
Last time, before Christmas, she, with delicate concentration, knitted her fingers through mine. She scolded me for not shaving as my beard brushed her cheek. She smiled, faint and gentle, at my faint and gentle jokes.
The last time we spoke.