The Saints Of Mibba
Salt.
My Gran?
She never taught me much.
And I owe her for it.
We'd sit there playing dominos or Scrabble for hours on end, watching the sun set through the potted tomato plants she had scattered along her window-ledge. And if it was a typical Scottish day, in other words, raining; she'd pull the blinds shut and we'd watch John Wayne films. I'd eat Mint Imperials and Chocolate Eclairs and she'd guzzle her beloved Turkish Delight, both of us drinking tea with too much sugar.
And she put salt on everything.
When she made lunch she'd butter the rolls and, I never saw her do this, but I swear she'd sprinkle salt on them. And in her delicious chicken broth she used to serve the rolls with, and even with porridge we ate for supper if I stayed overnight, there was always the faint taste of a salty substance burried in there somewhere. She had a bad heart and was always having bad falls. She seemed to think that gave her the right to eat bad, too.
When I was too young to understand the proper concept of karma, I thought it chose her because she never payed any attention to herself. She was always putting herself in so much danger; always just moments from breaking point, just a step from the edge. And little ten-year-old me figured that because she never looked twice at herself, and never let anyone else look twice either, cancer would come along and force her to be shoved into the heart-breaking spotlight that made sure she never fussed over a single one of us again.
But we sure as hell fussed over her.
My dad only let me go see her once, when she was right at the very end. She was exactly how you'd expect for a cancer patient, but four years ago I knew nothing about it. She was white as a ghost. She lost all her hair. I sat at her bedside and she showed me the box of wigs that the hospital provided, making silly jokes about every single one. I tried to laugh but ended up sobbing into her bedsheets.
I wanted to go back the next day and see her again, but it was too late, as it always is. My dad didn't cry, and my sister didn't either, but I did and I kept crying for a very long time. I was so desperate for someone to blame. But it took me a long time to realise it was no one's fault.
Everyone has their own way of dealing with death. Some people just mourn and grieve, and that in itself is bad enough, crying and crying and crying until your poor bloodshot eyes are all cried out. Some people pray. Those who believe in God or something stronger pray that their loved ones are in a better place, and are not gone but still live on in every step or breath they take.
Me? I put salt on everything.
Not a dangerous amount. Sometimes no more than a tiny pinch. But that stinging sourness reminds me of her and I doubt, even in this crazy excuse for a spirit, she will ever really go away.
Sometimes I wish I had something more beautiful to hold in her name, like her favourite flower or her favourite place or an old photograph or something. But beauty is in the eye of the beholder, is it not, and as long as I have the memory everytime I sense that tingling favour, I know I'm going to be okay.
My Gran?
She taught me everything I know.
And I love her for it.
She never taught me much.
And I owe her for it.
We'd sit there playing dominos or Scrabble for hours on end, watching the sun set through the potted tomato plants she had scattered along her window-ledge. And if it was a typical Scottish day, in other words, raining; she'd pull the blinds shut and we'd watch John Wayne films. I'd eat Mint Imperials and Chocolate Eclairs and she'd guzzle her beloved Turkish Delight, both of us drinking tea with too much sugar.
And she put salt on everything.
When she made lunch she'd butter the rolls and, I never saw her do this, but I swear she'd sprinkle salt on them. And in her delicious chicken broth she used to serve the rolls with, and even with porridge we ate for supper if I stayed overnight, there was always the faint taste of a salty substance burried in there somewhere. She had a bad heart and was always having bad falls. She seemed to think that gave her the right to eat bad, too.
When I was too young to understand the proper concept of karma, I thought it chose her because she never payed any attention to herself. She was always putting herself in so much danger; always just moments from breaking point, just a step from the edge. And little ten-year-old me figured that because she never looked twice at herself, and never let anyone else look twice either, cancer would come along and force her to be shoved into the heart-breaking spotlight that made sure she never fussed over a single one of us again.
But we sure as hell fussed over her.
My dad only let me go see her once, when she was right at the very end. She was exactly how you'd expect for a cancer patient, but four years ago I knew nothing about it. She was white as a ghost. She lost all her hair. I sat at her bedside and she showed me the box of wigs that the hospital provided, making silly jokes about every single one. I tried to laugh but ended up sobbing into her bedsheets.
I wanted to go back the next day and see her again, but it was too late, as it always is. My dad didn't cry, and my sister didn't either, but I did and I kept crying for a very long time. I was so desperate for someone to blame. But it took me a long time to realise it was no one's fault.
Everyone has their own way of dealing with death. Some people just mourn and grieve, and that in itself is bad enough, crying and crying and crying until your poor bloodshot eyes are all cried out. Some people pray. Those who believe in God or something stronger pray that their loved ones are in a better place, and are not gone but still live on in every step or breath they take.
Me? I put salt on everything.
Not a dangerous amount. Sometimes no more than a tiny pinch. But that stinging sourness reminds me of her and I doubt, even in this crazy excuse for a spirit, she will ever really go away.
Sometimes I wish I had something more beautiful to hold in her name, like her favourite flower or her favourite place or an old photograph or something. But beauty is in the eye of the beholder, is it not, and as long as I have the memory everytime I sense that tingling favour, I know I'm going to be okay.
My Gran?
She taught me everything I know.
And I love her for it.
♠ ♠ ♠
by My Chemical Romance.