She was 93 and I think, by now, 99 people came from her.⁠
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One woman in an armchair, in an old vernacular farmhouse, by a lake, in a borderland in Ireland who drew the world into her like a hug.⁠
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I can feel the texture, and smell the smell of her fadge bread with hunks of butter melting into it. ⁠
I can hear her wee mutter of prayers and the wet kiss on my cheek when I arrive at the house. ⁠
I can see her frown, in wondering who is there, become a big smile, as she sees me bring my little girl to meet her. ⁠
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I remember the holographic holy pictures at the top of the hall that would have me shaking in fear going up the stairs to the bathroom.⁠
I remember sneaking into the good back room and wanting to have that peacock sofa in my life every day. ⁠
I remember how much she loved my hats and handbags and coats and always tried them on. ⁠
I remember the photos on the wall and the wee cupboard underneath them and how I thought it housed a magic creature. ⁠
I remember finding an intricate, tiny key in the byre, and she told me to go and look for the box it opened, for it belonged to the faeries, and I remember making it my life’s mission to find that box. I remember losing the key and crying my heart out. ⁠
I remember going to Granny’s in uncle Hugh’s car every Sunday with the reams of us kids packed in to the small space with not a seat belt between us, singing ‘Molly Malone’, ‘I Never Will Marry’ and ‘Mary From Dungloe’. ⁠
I remember sitting on Granny’s knee and being told to sing ‘Sean South’ I could never remember the words. ⁠
I remember bringing my guitar to her and singing soft Irish love songs and seeing her face go somewhere else.⁠
I remember her telling me how she was looking forward to seeing Paddy again. ⁠
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