On your deathbed, you told him to look after me.
Wires everywhere, your body falling apart piece by piece, we sat next to you, whilst I brushed your hair and held your papery hand and he told you of your mother and how uni was going. At one point, you sent me to the canteen for something, and that was when you told him. Please always look after her.
You gave me advice too, in those precious moments we had alone together. Don’t fight with your mother, she tries her best. Do what makes you happy.
I have followed mine, and until now, he has followed his. But what now?
In our last minutes together, when I stood next to you to say goodbye, I told you that I would be cool with you haunting me. It would be great to know you are still around, somehow, somewhere. You never have been, but then I’ve always been in company. Now I am alone, and so, so lonely, and still I can’t feel you.
I miss you, Grandma. I am sad, and I really need to pick you up and drive you to Sainsburys, to eat sticky buns and then let you buy me clothes. Coats, always coats, I never had enough coats according to you. Or before then, a decade before, we’d sit and watch Blind Date, or Holby City, and you’d cook our favourite tea and it would be so nice. I miss you, and I need you now. This is the first time since you’ve been gone that I’ve really, horribly missed your guidance.
If he doesn’t keep his word, please help me find the strength to look after myself.