Nanikins remarked how it was a good thing that it had rained last night. The leaves have been given a bath.
A little uneasy, and teary-eyed, she gulped down her tea before we left.
Three in a row, we were moving towards the hospital ward at three different paces: Grandmother, daughter, and granddaughter. Ducks swim like this. If our family tree were more fleshed out, there'd be little quakers wading beside us.
The floor tiles were very clean. We noticed sunlight bouncing off the never-ending antiseptic corridors.
Mac Donald Senior lay covered with a blanket till his chin. The AC was on, and local anesthesia had stopped sensation. Worry not, doc said. In his half-smile, and groggy mumble that he is well, I notice for the first time how many teeth his dentures are proxy for. My grandmother tiptoes to her husband's bed, inching closer softly.
Factually, she's lived all her adult life with this just-operated-on body, and so attachment is expected. But immeasurable affection isn’t seen everyday. Not even with folks you see day in and day out, and especially not from the standpoint of callous youth.
Theirs was quite the romance
Fast forward to this day, sixty-five years later, in the hospital, on seeing his open eyes, she squealed, stroked his hair with relief. And then for a whole moment, she held his face, doing that goldfish thing when thumb and forefinger press each side of a face making it look pouty and hollow at the same time. His mouth was dry, and no, melon flavoured balm wouldn’t help, he said to me. Wifey had all the solutions: she just made him drink water. Sweet, sweet melody: to be in the presence of a love that has endured decades, and only felt better.