“Do you think she needs to keep being fed?” I asked just before leaving Grandma’s nursing home.
I had seen the plate keep arriving and with good intentions, the puree being tipped in between tight lips.
The carers were devoted, they loved Gran because she loved people.
After 15 years of dementia, she still had a twinkle in her eye and a cheeky smile but language had left her.
She’d been through breast cancer, the death of her husband and the loss of her memory.
Gran had nursed at the local rural hospital for twenty years before resigning to help take care of us kids.
She had taught me bed corners on the mattresses at home and had the determination of a country woman who had seen her fair share of suffering.
Watching as Dad knelt beside her bed, I was content to stand guard at the door, later to find out she'd whispered the words "I love you" before they parted.
She passed away the morning I flew home.
I touch the tapestry threads that she once held and consider her work and mine woven together with wisdom in one hand and heart in the other.
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