A Prayer

A Prayer

As Mum's moods and dreams are still in my mind, it got me thinking about my own future, and I do hope and pray that as I get older,  I shall be like my Uncle John (Mum's brother), and my Grandma (Mum's mother).  My Grandma lived until she was nearly 92, and died after a fall and breaking her hip.  This was in 1985; she was living abroad, and I remember when Wendy and I went out to visit her, one of the nurses in the hospital where she was recovering from an operation to fit and Richards Pin and Plate, said to me:

"You don't see you Grandmother as a geriatric, do you?"

Was I indignant?  I was!  I remember snapping back, "She's my Grandma. She may be old, but she's not geriatric!"

The nurse sighed and retreated. Obviously, I was not seeing things clearly.  On the other hand, maybe the nurse wasn't looking at Grandma properly.  Grandma might have been laid up after the fall, but she was still full of fun. She was an incorrigible flirt, too. She had a very charming, young (well, 40-ish) physiotherapist who came every day to get her up and walking with a zimmer frame, and he really encouraged her to get going.

Some days were harder than others, but, my word, Grandma did try to persevere.  She stood up in the frame one day, and looked him straight in the eye.

"If I get walking again," she said, "would you go dancing with me?"

Looking straight back at her, he said, "When you get walking again, I'll take you dancing!"

No-one tried harder than Grandma, or was more encouragable.

Uncle John is a real chip off Grandma's block - he's now 94, but with the same naughty sense of humour, a willingness to learn new things - every day is an opportunity, every day is a gift. Wendy goes out to Brisbane every year to spend a holiday with him; like his Mum, he is fun.

My Prayer

I pray that if, when I am old,
And inhabit a world of my own,
It will be a happy place;
Filled with fond memories and
Flowers, picked on sunny days, that
Warm my heart with the sudden awakened
Dreams, that spring
From the hint of old perfumes;

And not a world filled
With sad demons of regret,
Real or imaginary; or
Of old wounds, left unhealed,
To grow and fester in
A confused state of recollection.

If my thoughts be misplaced,
Let them hide and tease,
Dancing in gentle shadows,
Where the sun dapples on soft grass
Beneath a sturdy tree, where
I can lean back against its
Rough bark and dream, contentedly;
And where the world becomes
My world again; and I am who I am,
And where and what I want to be.