“Cup of tea?” she would ask, a
master of the teakettle.
My elder daughter, as soon as she
could talk, dubbed her Big Nan, and
it stuck.
Nan’s eyes twinkled whenever any of her great-grandchildren were in her presence; she’d sneak them chocolate chip cookies.
Nan’s eyes twinkled whenever any of her great-grandchildren were in her presence; she’d sneak them chocolate chip cookies.
One day I high-tailed out of London
to set up a new life in the USA after earning parole from my family’s business.
I didn’t think for one moment I’d
never see Big Nan again. She was 85, but
strong as an ox with fortitude and obstinacy that seemed greater than God’s
will, and her Uncle James lasted well over
a century.
We hugged near the front door, taxi
waiting, a kiss on each cheek.
“I’ll miss you!” Nan blurted, with uncharacteristic
emotion.
As she said goodbye to my wife and
daughter, she looked ready to cry.
About six weeks later I returned to London for her funeral
and slept in my old room at my parents’ house, which did not feel the same
without Nan around to offer a cup of tea.
I could not sleep, but lay awake on my bed, gazing out the window at
England’s dark purple sky.
 |
| Thomas Van Stein |
Then I saw something I’d never seen before, though I’d yearned to see it all my life: a shooting star.
Only a couple weeks earlier, at the
Bhodi Tree bookstore in West Hollywood, I’d opened a spiritual book at random (bibliomancy) and, by mere chance, happened upon a line suggesting that a shooting star
signified the death of a grandparent.
In my heart, I knew it was Big Nan's big goodbye.
In my heart, I knew it was Big Nan's big goodbye.
