Thursday, 4 July 2013
It’s almost a year since I met my beautiful grandson Tommy, my first grandchild, the little boy that pushes to the forefront of my mind on a daily basis. The day of his arrival was bittersweet. His skin was perfect, as soft as the first fall of snow of winter. I left my inquisitive touch lingering on his cheeks, a statement of his handsomeness chiselled high on his perfect face, his lips pursed in a kiss, confident arches drawn with the precision of an artist’s brush. His beauty was astounding, his silence overwhelming and yet he lives on in our hearts and our minds, always a part of the family that love him with the intensity of lashing rain that polishes pavements and seeps into the very roots of our existence.
Yesterday was the anniversary of my grandmother’s death and symbolically I paid homage to them both, granny and grandson, my loved ones that straddle the ladder of my life, stretching high into an expansive sky that bends and folds and carries our memories in the bright stars that burn brightly even when we can’t see them. Somewhere out there, beyond the vast wings of the heron that sweeps majestically from the misty clouds, they watch us and guide us and push and prod us and make sure we know they are with us.
I’m on Rathlin, watching my home at Mullindress take shape, its broad shoulders rising from the roots of that lashing rain that is everything that I am and always will be. It’s coming on at pace. The house is watertight, the roof fastened tightly like a rain-mate tucked under the chin of an old lady pushing her way into the morning showers. The windows are fixed, each frame a looking glass, a reflection of the beauty that shapes every nook and cranny of the land and the sea that beams with pride, shouting me, me, me as if poised in front of a camera. Its jaw-dropping beauty is there at every turn, and it is within this nest of wonder that my house sits, arms outstretched, pushing beyond the garden and hugging Tommy’s tree, it’s branches in turn fondly embracing the memories of a grandmother whose warmth lingers in the air with the intensity of the freshly baked bread she greeted the world with each morning.
So, we’re getting there. I won’t bore you with the detail but the kitchen is on its way (from Germany no-less), as is the material for the bathrooms. The white oak floors and doors, wood with a story to tell, will find its way to Mullindress soon, its message no doubt strong and wise and protective. The first fit electrics are this week.
The dream is becoming a reality. I just know that the stars will push closer tonight, a bright light penetrating the darkness.