The wind is warm. It gentles the skin on my face as I turn into it on my way to the fairy woods. Soft, it is and soothing, reminding me of Granny’s cashmere cardigan, my face buried in the warmth of it, of her. At times when life outside of Granny’s cashmere cardigan felt raw and dangerous, there she was, so much of her, a tall woman, broad shouldered, tough, kind, broken and yet determined to sparkle. She saw, as grandmother, what she may well not have seen as mother, busy then, her own life important, her commitments to husband, to friends, to a world that judged and marginalised. How you look, what you say, whom you associate with, all created cliques and if you stepped, or fell, over a line (or one of your family did), the consequences were devastating. I see a different world to hers, nowadays and we, who remember Granny’s world, have the chance to re-educate ourselves. I am glad of that.

I hang out the washing early, fixing the cloudy sky with a threatening glare. According to my app, I say out loud, there will be no rain this day. A passing seagull squawks at me. I harrumph and keep pegging. One pair of cropped leggings, two frocks, 2 underpants, one soft bra, one bath towel, an oven glove, a jumper and a kitchen cloth. All those years I wished for such a light load and now I have it. Wash day was every day back then, and twice, or even thrice, the machine choking to death just after the yearly warranty silently expired, saying nothing about this expiring thing, not even to me. All those mother years, running, rushing through every job, and, now, here’s a thing. I still do the rushing. I must do this now, that then, the other before the this and the that because if I don’t the whole world will fall into space and it will be my fault and, worse, everyone will know it’s my fault and I will be explaining myself for the rest of my days. But I don’t need to rush now and must needs halt myself, or conjugate (intentional) my own inner policeman, policewoman, policeperson, and go with the verb.

I work on muscle tone. Sounds grand, i know, but it’s just me with dumbbells (pink of course) in the kitchen, counting whilst I watch the sky stay grand and quiet and the clouds just skid marks. Then I walk the wee dog, taking her, afterwards, down to the shore. She, who on the home strait, slows and puffs and tells me how frickin old she is and wotwot, suddenly erupts into a party, all swing and sass and her tail feathers catching the sunlight as she clocks that we are going to the shore. The shore, where she still remembers the grand girls, their crab fishing, their squeals of fun, their love of becoming mermaids in the in-between of tides, when the waters are brackish, but warmish, and the fun of family around, including Granny Me, seeing and clapping and Watch Me Grannying my head off.

Today I find a bit of wood, plank it between basalt rocks, rest my butt, and look out, just me and the wee dog. A diver dives, breaking the slack water wide open, catching my eye and creating a sunlit flash. Then gone. Geese fly in, honking the length of the sea-loch, already lowering, tired from their trip. Diamonds sparkle on the surface, calm now, awaiting the next pull from the moon. In. Out. Endless demand. I remember it in my own human life, and I smile. You have it too, I say to the water, new water, never the same water. What I dip my toe in today was, chances are, in Alaska or Newfoundland or South Africa a short while ago. Perhaps I am like that too, never the same as I was. As time moves us on, are any of us the same as we were? Life, at best, hones us. Life, at worst, breaks us. That is how it is. On my way home to unpeg my washing, to feed my dog, to watch the fabulous west coast light, clouds or no, I think on the broken, the marginalised still, and I know that I know nothing, beyond this. Be a friend. Say nothing.

Just like a granny.