Greenhouse Death...

When I was a little girl, I fondly remember the day death crept upon me and rattled my never-ever land. My Grandma and I were pondering in the greenhouse, Grandma attending to drooping plants, and myself getting in the way and kicking soil out of forgotten pots. I remember the soft chatter coming from the yard next door, our cockatoo squawking on his perch, and my Grandma occupying herself with one eye on her watering can and the other on her wayward Grandchild. What I don’t remember about this spring afternoon, is where in my young mind had I conjured up the idea of what life’s definite ending is. I only recall the birthing of control I experienced and to which I believed I needed, in order to survive it.


Fondly, I remember walking my pudgy legs up beside Grandma, harbouring a frown and a clear directive. “Grandma, I do not want to come and stay with you anymore on my own, in the school holidays”. With this outburst, and curiosity painted on her face, my Grandma questioned my sudden explosion, to which I replied, “Because I do not want to be the only one here when you drop dead.”


Being the age of six, adult reactions are harder to differentiate then your fellow playmates on the gym equipment. Five to six year olds wear there emotional responses on there bodies; anger means a small body erupting in a tantrum with limbs flying everywhere vibrating the earth underneath; sadness, is worn on a trembling body, drowning in frightened tears and crying for safety, usually found in the arms of a mother; and happiness means a careless and liberated body, dancing freely in the unknowns monsters of the world, where the kings are covered in ice-cream and the villains are avoid of play time.


Momentarily, there was a deafening silence shared between my Grandma and I, as I tried to read what all the wrinkles on her face and the colour of her eyes were saying. I realised I had my work cut out for me when, through my deciphering, my Grandma gently rolled back her head with her arms firm on her hips and began laughing. I could feel my frown creeping over my eyes and my little heart through my chest, as my child body became confused as to why laughter was the resolution. You see to me, I was under the impression that death was no laughing matter, nor was I willing to take place in any story that portrayed it. I had figured in my fickle little mind, after learning about prehistoric dinosaurs and cavemen, that Grandmas are of ancient ages and imminent endings, and I had made up my mind, I was not going to be the one left standing when my Grandma stood no more.


So, understandably I became baffled when my Grandma laughed lovingly in my request and cupped my little chin in her warm palm. There was always something so comforting about Grandmas touch, her hands smelt a potion of lavender talcum powder and oil of ulan, and her folds of skin were safe to hold on too. My Grandmas kind eyes matched mine, and with this she simply said, “I can’t wait to tell your father about this!” and walked up the stairs, out of the greenhouse and into the sunroom to share what I understand now, a timeless comment from an innocent child.


I recall, not really getting the joke, but sitting next to Grandma and laughing along with her anyway, as she shared with my father over the phone. I did wonder, if this meant my Grandmother was immortal and I have no death to fear, or if her death would be a humorous occasion featuring clowns, fairy floss and balloons. I was young enough to feel isolated from there adult reactions, but also loved enough to feel safe in there exchange at my expense. For different generational reasons, I was included in the passing of humour which did not feel like teasing, but a kindness a granddaughter feels in the presence of her elder.


I do not remember the conversation I imagine that followed reassuring my young creative soul about death and what it means to die, I guess this memory is the sole teaching in which I needed to be student too in order to slowly be introduced to the inevitable fates that awaits all of us.


The night my Grandma passed, I heard the phone call. Years later from that day in the greenhouse, her looming fate had come to an end, much like my never ever fantasy of permanence in living. Sadly my heart was rich enough to ache and sit in the heartbreak of grief, and my eyes were observant enough to witness the pain of loosing a mother my father endured. Darkness clouded the light in my family, and in the shadows no clowns appeared, and no balloons flew above.



As an adult who harbours many complexities around death, I wonder how I can return to that day when as a child, I believed I could instruct its presence in and out of my life. How simple to view death as an option, and by the rules of a six year old girl, an option non negotiable.

And then I think...


How beautiful, to own a moment in time between a Grandma and a Granddaughter such as this moment, and take from it what we both needed to continue expanding our openness to a fate that in our time, eventually for both of us closes forever.