Life, death and chocolate

It’s a tough one, I have to say, because I’ve found with the passing years my ability to recall even recent happenings- let alone the earliest of memories- has very much diminished. Not to mention, there’s the added discomfort that weighs in the pit of your stomach, when after a period of reflection, from somewhere deep in the dark recesses a serpent-like thought reincarnates with terrifying clarity in the temporal lobe, leaving you with no option but to crawl under your bed and curl up into a ball.

One such memory was of my grandmother, or Nana as we called her: my mother’s mother and the only grandparent I had come to know. Again, the memories are quite vague, and recollections of our time spent together come to the fore with the help of old photographs; like the one of us standing next to her in the garden of her sister’s home in Dublin, my brothers and I wearing matching Aran jumpers that she had knitted for us; or another one of us walking through Corrig Wood, my brother James and I walking beside her, my hand in hers, his in mine, smiling from ear to ear in our matching denim, her free hand holding a buggy into which Tiny had been strapped, wailing, with tears streaming down his rosy cheeks, sporting a nappy that had just been filled to the brim.

Does it count as a memory if it’s captured in print, I wonder? I guess in a sense it’s more real than a memory, and perhaps more accurate, one could argue. But, I digress.

All that being said, I do recall this event quite vividly. Given that Nana lived only 2 doors down from us at the time, we visited her home quite often. On this particular day, we all gathered in the living room: Nana, my parents, my brothers and I. I was about 5 or 6 at the time, as was James, which would’ve made Tiny around 3 or 4. Nana lived in a beautiful bungalow along a stretch of country road; we would kick the ball out the back garden on most days, which would often then result in us kicking lumps out of each other. They were magical times.

Nana had a utility room by the back door where she kept her washing machine and a cupboard where she would sometimes stash goodies. I remember on that day, whilst returning from the bathroom, I decided to take a detour and stop by the cupboard in the utility room. Sure enough, I found an unopened packet of my favourite chocolate biscuits.

Without hesitation, I tore them open and devoured a chocolate-covered treat in one delicious mouthful. I stuffed the packet back into the cupboard, hurriedly swallowed the last remnants of mushy biscuit, and sheepishly returned to the living room, whereupon entry, my father gave me one of those where-the-fuck-were-you stares.

A few minutes passed, and as the dopamine rush from the sugar began to wear off, I started to survey the room; Nana and my parents were locked in conversation, and my two brothers were occupied with The Den- thank you Zig and Zag! Satisfied that nobody would notice, out I slipped once more, headed straight for the forbidden fruit.

It was at around the fourth visit to the cupboard, when I noticed the packet beginning to feel considerably lighter, but gripped now by the sugar and the deviance, I snatched two more biscuits regardless, and banged the door shut. When I turned around, my greedy little face full of biscuit, I found my father standing in the doorway.

I can’t recall the full details of the conversation, but I remember him being down at eye-level, telling me in no uncertain terms, that I had to come clean. No amount of crocodile tears were going to get me out of this one, and it wasn’t for the lack of trying. The thought of owning up to what I had done, telling this wonderful lady, who loved and cared for us dearly, that I had stolen from her, it still makes me sick to my stomach. Stood there on the cold tiled floor of the utility room, with my father staring into my soul, every last sinew of muscle in my tiny body was fear-stricken; I was paralyzed with guilt and shame, but with my father’s encouraging hand upon my shoulder, I returned to the living room and told Nana what I’d done.

A year or so after that incident, I was walking side by side with my father along the church side of town. I remember staring up at him and thinking how different he looked. He rarely dresses up, but he was wearing a suit on this day, black with a white shirt, and black tie; I was feeling rather out of sorts myself, in a shirt and trousers.

Cancer had taken Nana, and we were walking toward the graveyard.

I was far too young to understand grief, and I suppose looking back I’m not sure if what I was feeling at the time was indeed grief; nor was I certain what had happened to her or why, I just knew I’d never see her again. And I remember like it was yesterday while walking by my father’s side, being locked in a sort of game with myself, of trying to match his stride as we walked. I had been concentrating intensely on striking the pavement with the sole of my shoe at the exact moment he had done so, but after two or three steps I would find myself having to jump just to keep pace, and thus falling out of sync.

My whole existence in that short walk from the church to the graveyard, comprised of my many attempts to emulate my father; the heartache after a near miss, and the jubilation after striking the pavement at just the right moment. With such laser-like focus on each and every step, not once did the concept of death enter my mind.

One day, I will inevitably have to say goodbye to my incredible father, and I wonder now upon reflection, how on earth I will be able to cope. I’m sure I will continue to look up to him as I do now and have always done, to not only try to match his footfalls on the pavement, but also have the courage to step onto the grass from time to time so that I can continue to carve my own path, and hopefully, above all else, make him proud.