For years she has sat there in her chair watching soaps and muttering about neglect. Not without love but she always waited for you to make the first move. Her husband always did that but he has been dead these twenty years. Since then she has lived a dormant life. Normal in a fading way. Unremarkable in detail but defended by a certain vanity and pride I’ve watched her wither on the vine. Around her on the walls are photographs, not of her children but of her Dad, and husband , of course. She loved him all his life. Had known him since they were very young. He lite her world and brought purpose to her day. Since he moved on she put the joys of life away. Laughter was a memory replaced by stoic defiance.
It seemed almost like water in the desert. The effect was not obvious but still startling. Her grand-daughter is now expecting and a life without purpose has direction again.This new life and the energy it brings has brought focus to her eyes, and hands which fiddled with nothing but the remote have started knitting once again. The product is amazing, full of skill. Each garment a work of art in it’s own right. I saw her sitting with her family. They gathered round her looking at her work. “It’s remarkable” one girl exclaimed, and so it was. It now appears she won some competition in her youth. Her skill is more than ordinary that is clear, as urgent needles worry at the thread. Her eyes are focused and alert. “She ran when she was young” her son exclaims, “Was trialed for the Olympics, really good”. We look again and she looks up and smiles. This new birth has given her life again. and even her laugh is freed from grief’s hard chains.
This baby, whose yet to see the world is making those around him smile. Look at each other and count the days, move the husband to shelter his young wife and make this quiet old lady proud again.