My dear Nan,
So much has happened in the years since you crossed over into the the Summerlands. You know some of it, because we met again when I briefly died in ICU and you told me it wasn’t my time. You were right – it’s not my time yet. I also know that it’s really you who visits me now and then; I’ve not forgotten the phone ringing on the day you died. You said “Hello, love. It was a long journey, but I made it home safely”. Nobody is ever going to convince me that you didn’t call me from where your personal heaven is – especially since you took me in to show me where you live in the afterlife when I died for a few minutes that time, before you kicked my bum back into the land of the living. You were always good at kicking me into touch.
I’m glad you got to know Dom, and I’m happy that you loved him. He loved you, too. He could see the love between you and I, and he loved you all the more for it. He knew that you’d always been my safe harbour when I was facing a storm; he knew that you had always been there for me.
I wish that you’d lived to see us married, because I know that you wanted us to be together. I wish that you were still here for me to send you flowers. I miss your phone calls, and our lunches at our favourite cafe. I miss our conversations, and I especially miss your wicked Welsh spark and humour.
I know that you didn’t want this particular injury to happen to me. I know that the idea of your atheletic granddaughter sustaining a life changing injury would have hurt you a great deal. But, unfortunately, that’s what happened. Seizures are unpredictable like that, and my hip (and my mobility) will never be the same again. It’s such a small scar; it’s amazing as to what it hides – and I will always be crippled from this.
I am honestly okay with this, Nan. It’s not something I wanted or planned, but I’m learning to adjust because I have no other choice. I know you would have been there to catch me as I fell down the stairs, if you could have been – but I also know that there wouldn’t have been a lot that you could have done in order to save me.
I still get to enjoy myself though, Nan – even though I need assistance these days. This is me, with Dom, at a Discworld convention. I would give anything to be able to tell you all about it. I wish I could tell you how I’ve made new and amazing friends over the years, and how I cured my arachnophobia.
And I wish you’d been able to see my son grow up. You never failed to ask after him. He’s 22 now, and very happy with his life.
I miss you, my dear Nana. I always will. Every time I see a robin, I think of you.