An odd family day out

Mémé was a typically old-fashioned, old lady who loved the tradition of being given a sprig of muguet (‘lily of the valley’) on the first of May.

Apparently, this typically French tradition stretches back as far 1561, when King Charles IX of France received a lily of the valley as a lucky charm and subsequently decided to offer the flower each year to the ladies of his court.  By the beginning of the twentieth century, the flower had become a symbol of springtime, presented to loved ones who offer a kiss in return.

Mémé just loved that kind of thing and not just because it represented an age of chivalry and noble love that had so obviously been absent throughout her own unhappy marriage.  You see, it also meant that her doorbell rang with visitors for almost the entire day; and rather than constantly getting up from her favorite wooden chair, she would simply leave the key next to her window – so that those who knew her could reach inside, take the key and let themselves in.  By the end of the day, this simple home would be filled with the springtime scent of a person being loved.

Yesterday, we went as a family to take muguet again to Mémé.  This time, however, it took us by a different route to the gates of our local cemetery.

The fact that our youngest, five-year old girls still don’t quite understand was immediately apparent as we drove through the entrance of this huge garden of remembrance.

‘Wow!  Does this all belong to Mémé, now?’ asked one of the children innocently.

Personally, I still find it both disturbing and fascinating to visit these places.  As hard as I try, I simply can’t get my head around the terrible fact of non-existence – the fact that the person that I can still see and hear so clearly in my mind is now only kept alive by these fading memories of years past. 

The girls, meanwhile, continue to discuss and try to make sense of the situation between themselves.

‘So is Mémé under that stone?  Why is she there?’

‘Because she’s dead.  But she’s not under the stone, she’s in the sky.’

Suddenly, Léa is distracted.  She has noticed another gravestone with her name on it.

‘Look!  There’s my name: L-E-A.  But I’m not dead.  It must be another Léa.’

Driving back home, there a quietness in the car and I wonder how much sense this makes to the children.  How much can they take in?  How much, if anything at all, do they remember of their great grandmother while she was alive?  Do they remember the taste of her crepes or the stock of sweets she used to keep in the cupboard?  Do they recall the way she sat at her table all day, next to her phone, waiting for the next call? Or the secret stash of cash, bills and official documents, so obviously ‘hidden’ under the dining-room table cloth?

Over dinner, we found ourselves again discussing how it was possible that Mémé now ‘lived’ in the sky.  Was she flying a plane or living on a cloud?  Juliette suddenly interjected. 

‘She’s not in the sky, in fact.  She’s here now, sitting at the table with us.’

And who knows, perhaps in an odd way, she was right.