I remember chattering away about everything and nothing. As I do. My gran didn't say a word. I was never sure whether she was listening. And she probably wasn't. So deep she was in her own thoughts. But that didn't stop me. I chattered on. While her stiff arthritis-afflicted fingers sliced neat splits along the length of each pod to release a tumble of fresh green peas into a shiny silver bowl. And when the last pea was shelled, all the ripe granadillas were gone and it was time to go inside, my gran finally spoke. "My girl," she said, "It all comes full circle. Everything that has happened and everything that's going to happen still." And then she stood up and disappeared into the cool dark haven of the house. What she said then made no sense. And I felt a little sick from all the sun and that sticky sweet fruit. So I left it at that. But I've never forgotten. A seven year old girl in a pair of pink shorts sitting on a yellow Checkers plastic carrier bag (to avoid piles, obvs) with my gran, a glut of granadillas, the bowl of peas on her lap. And those words.
It's been five years since we were in our own home in South Africa anxiously waiting the news of our UK visa application. We're currently in that position again. Except this time, we're asking to stay. Not for permission to arrive. We're about to apply for Indefinite Leave to Remain. Residency outcome aside, we're also not sure about whether we're going to be able to continue to live in the house we currently rent. We may be moving again. It appears to be our thing. Move. Copy. Paste. I'm uncharacteristically sanguine about it all. Despite all the will in the world, I've realised that I simply cannot control everything. And more than merely acknowledging this, I'm ok with it. Not happy mind, I'm not a sociopath. But I can deal.
In 1999, I moved to the UK on a two-year working holiday visa. When my then-boyfriend-now-husband and I first visited Windsor, we stepped off the train in much the same way as the over-eager tourists who annoy us do today, and we made our way down to the river. We stood on Eton Bridge and looked up in awe at the first castle we'd ever seen. He said, "When we're grown-ups with kids and stuff and if ever we live in the UK, I think we should live in Windsor." I sarcastically replied: "Sure, let's go big. Let's have loads of kids. And let's live in the Castle. I'm sure the Queen won't mind. She wouldn't even notice us. But let's never be grown-ups." We were 18 years old.
I don't know where we'll be in another five year's time. I can't tell you our postcode. The place we'll call home. I don't know a lot of things. But I do know that my gran's words are as relevant to me today as they were 30 years ago. Even though I'm certain now that she was talking more to herself than she was to me. Life does come full circle. In a myriad of ways that are both weird and wonderful, foreign and familiar. And all we can do is trust in the turns, be mindful of the moments that make up the whole and be grateful for the journey. And those are my goals for 2018.
My gran hasn't been with us for 17 years, but I think she'd approve. Of my plans for the year ahead. And the fact that I think of her every time I shell a pea while my six year old little girl offers a running commentary on everything and nothing. Every time I smash open a wrinkly-skinned granadilla and the smell takes me straight back to my childhood - to a sunny stoep in the eastern interior of South Africa. And every time I warn my children about cold concrete and the perils of piles. *
* Old wives' tale or not, it's family lore. Can't possibly argue with that.
|
 |
| Five years of family life in Windsor - with no grown-ups |
 |
| With my gran on the day I was christened - before the joys of granadillas |
 |
| When her lap was my stoep |
