Not one extra prune

My mother and aunt stayed with us on Malta for a glorious two weeks this October.  I luxuriated in their presence.  Their daily routines were fixed.  In the morning after their showers they had breakfast, eating exactly the same thing each day.  A bowl of porridge and five prunes followed by a pot of tea with one slice of wholemeal bread toasted, with butter and marmalade.  Then they would hand wash all their dirty clothes.  My practice of dumping all colours into the washing machine was an anathema to them.  They are of the generation that hand washed, bleached and bullied laundry into blistering white submission – my half grey whites did not do!

The sun here in Malta dried their clothes in a few hours and they delighted in the speed of the whole affair.  Then, after tidying my flat with equal thoroughness and a demanding level of order and neatness they filled their water bottles and headed out for their daily forced march.  They would walk the promenade beside the Med each day, choosing St Julian’s Bay one day from Sliema and then the next heading right towards Valetta.  These walks were no mean feat in the burning sunshine.  They allowed themselves just two breaks during this four-hour marathon.  One was for ice cream cone, or a ‘poke’ as my mum calls it.  

My Mum, with eight decades under her belt, would order their cones with a smile, asking for loads of the white cooling ice cream on top.  God bless the Maltese café staff who universally responded with unrestrained generosity filling the two small cones to abundant heights.  The happiness with which these two grandmothers/great grandmothers devoured their treat had to be seen.  With two hours of walking in the baking heat it felt like a life saver and their toes practically curled in delight at the delicious coolness.

Then on for another two hours of walking and chatting.  These two have so many memories to share, so much news to tell and experiences to debrief they talk non-stop for the whole two weeks.  Listening to them chatting away from their beds to each other until they fell asleep was the best background music to have.

The second pit stop is for a large cappuccino and they have by now found the best cafés to stop at.  

Not only the café but also they also have a favourite table near the door from where they can observe the world go by.  My aunt has an eye for detail.  Noticing people who chew with their tongues out, peculiar gaits, unusual hairstyles or fashions ensembles.  She notices everything and views the entire spectacle with excited voyeurism.  This is fortunate, as my mother sees nothing.  She is a ‘starer off into space’, happy in her own skin and head with a coffee mug held tight in delight.  So this unusual team works well.  My aunt points out what my mother would have missed and my mother restrains her sister from tucking in shirt tails, turning down labels that stick up and generally rearranging the hairdos of complete strangers.

I tease them because they do not vary their routine.  Not one extra prune, not one different flavour of ice cream ventured, not even their footwear has changed in the last few years.  But they are happy, fit and in great shape.  Their laughter and giggles filled the flat and our lives from the moment they arrived until they disappeared into the departure lounge in the airport on the way home.

So if anyone happened to see me standing at Malta International Airport last week waving and sobbing at two elderly ladies while tears tripped down my face try to understand.  Such people burrow into your heart and letting them go is akin to open-heart surgery.

blank

I used to have lists of things to do, written on crisp white sheets in a fine jotter.  Then as each job was completed I'd score it off with satisfaction.  A list of accomplishments to mark the passing days.  Being a productive a measure of my purpose in life.  Progress tallied on each fresh page.  but now I spend ages searching for a pen, I had a second ago.  If only I could find my glasses I'd stand a better chance.  My new skill seems to be able to make things disappear instantly.  Vital pieces of paper, phones, purses can all be magically transported.  It's not restricted to material things either.  My thoughts too have begun to delete themselves, like a hard drive wiping out sectors at a whim.  I've begun to doubt myself, forget why I've entered a room and names have evaporated as well.  I am being positive about the whole affair.  I choose to think it is all about reaching a stage of detachment.  Removing oneself from all without and even that within.  Perhaps, I'll come full circle and will end up being the crisp blank sheet I once wrote on.

Homesickness - Already!!

I know, I know I was waxing lyrical about Malta in my last blog.  So after only four days here why do I feel suddenly so low.  I mean people come here on two week breaks and are probably happier during this fortnight than the rest of their year.  So why after four days am I feeling the pull of all things familiar?  It’s not the place to be honest, having been brought up in Northern Ireland I can honestly say its faults are branded into my memory banks.  But it is the people.  You remember all the people that mean so much to you and a longing to see them, laugh together, hug them sweeps over you.  It swamps all the present beauty around me and in this beautiful spot I see that I am strangely bereft.  My Dad used to say Irish homesickness is a terminal disease.  I suddenly know what he means.  You feel the tug of all those who love you and the passing of each 24 hours without them seems unendurable.  The clock is ticking, on which we have an allotted span and it is intolerable to waste a moment.  So to all of you back home hug close those you hold dear.  Have those conversations, walks and hugs.  Take delight in being so close, don’t waste a second in arguments.

 And here from a bench in the shade overlooking the Med know how much I miss you and suddenly long for your presence.