It's the little things

Someone talked about grief pockets; like a plane flying happily you suddenly hit a patch of turbulence.

I had a phone call tonight from a friend. Her daughter has had an accident and hurt her leg. She needs a wheelchair whilst she recovers.

We have a spare wheelchair. It has lived in the garage for the past eighteen months or so. One upon a time, it was my Grandmother's wheelchair. It's a wide wheelchair, with push handles just that tiny bit too low to be comfortable for the pusher, but with a big cushioned seat and comfy backrest.

When Grandma died, we cleaned it off a bit, and it became Goldie's back up wheelchair. She didn't use it very often, just when her regular wheelchair needed fixing, or when she needed to travel in a car rather than our accessible vehicle.

So tonight, I fetched it from the garage, and grabbed a bowl of bleachy water to clear the mildewcobwebs off.

And I found myself scrubbing bits of chocolate out of the strap.

And then in my head, I could see Goldie's eyes light up and her voice whisper "choc-o-layte" in a hushed, awe-filled voice reserved for only the most extra special of things - chocolate, her grandparents, her favourite videos. And I could see her hands dance that chocolate into her mouth, and then search her lap for any missing crumbs. Thinking back to the last time she would have used this wheelchair, that would quite possibly have been an Easter Egg she was demolishing with such glee.

And then I dipped my scouring pad back in the bleach, and cleared it all away. And my friend came and took the wheelchair away. And I was sad.

And then the phone rang again, the feed pump bleeped, the cats demanded dinner, and life moved on again.

Tia