(no subject)

[framlingem]

My mother told me yesterday that my Great Aunt Isobel died. (She is kind enough not to give me euphemisms when she knows I hate them - Isobel has not passed on, moved on, passed away, she's just dead. She hasn't gone anywhere, she's just _gone_.)

I am sad - there goes another of the people who have memories of me that I don't have, because I was too young at the time to make them. I am sadder for my mother, because Aunt Isobel is one of the people who had memories of _her_ mother, my gran. There's a whole load of stories that won't get told again.

I am not sad, because she was old, and unafraid, and lived the hell out of her life. My clearest memory of her is watching her dance at her granddaughter's wedding, having badgered her doctor into dosing her with steroids for a month beforehand so she could. (Her logic: 'I'm ninety. What's it going to hurt?')

She was one of these people who got old and then didn't change. There's a picture of her with my Mum, sometime in the sixties, and she looks exactly the same as she did on Anne's wedding day, only a bit less frail. Blue eyes, curly white hair, long fingers.

I'm not crying over this, because I know full well she wouldn't. She was okay with the concept of death. If I can age and live with half her grace, I will have a good life.

Comments

[anigo.livejournal.com]

**quiet hugs**

[anneheart.livejournal.com]

*hugs*