101 and Gone Just Like That

Remembering Nan always brings the same image to mind: I am tiny, curled up on her lap, held in the gentle rise and fall of her breathing in her rocking chair. She cared for me from six months to two years old, those early days woven into my memory like the first rows of a blanket. Then Dad took me back into my parents’ life, saying we would visit Granddad’s tomb. But we never went back. One moment I was in her arms, and the next, I was gone from her care, just like that.

She carried that wound quietly, retelling the story of the day I left as if repetition might soften its edges. I never blamed Dad; he was only trying to protect his marriage from Nan's disapproval. Time, however, has a way of smoothing even the sharpest corners. Whenever she visited us—or we visited her—I would find myself back on her lap, as if no time had passed at all.

The black and white photo of me and the doll she bought me, the same height as I was then, with big eyes like mine and no hair like mine, still stays with me, and I can’t help but glance at it now and then. I remember her knitting cardigans for me, her hands moving with patient certainty, and how she taught me to crochet. She was delighted when I joined all the squares into a centrepiece for the coffee table, a small triumph she celebrated as if it were a masterpiece.

My earliest birthdays took place at her house — the one when I turned two, with a tiny cake and a backyard full of sunlight, and the one when I turned eighteen, when I felt grown but still found myself drawn to her kitchen, her stories, her steady presence. Those celebrations mark the beginning and end of my childhood and young adulthood, both anchored by her hands, her home, her love.

She helped Mum sew dresses for every special occasion — wedding dresses, Sunday dresses, Christmas dresses, dresses for school concerts and family gatherings. Fabric rustled through her fingers like water, shaped with the same tenderness she used when holding my hands as a child. Those memories return in soft waves: the scent of new cloth, the glint of pins, the hum of her concentration. We shared story after story, weaving our lives together in the quiet way women often do.

The kitchen was another place where our hands worked alongside each other. We baked cakes and biscuits together, especially Anzac biscuits — golden, chewy, warm from the oven. She showed me how to press the dough just enough, and how to watch for the edges turning the right shade of brown. The smell of butter and oats still carries her presence, even now.

When life pulled me away — first into adulthood, then into motherhood, and later across the world — she found ways to keep our connection alive. She made birthday cards, Christmas cards, and letters entirely by hand. Not bought, but crafted. Paper folded with care, borders drawn in coloured pencil, tiny pressed flowers tucked inside, her handwriting looping like soft vines across the page. Even when I worked in England for two years, her cards arrived like small lanterns in the post, glowing with home.

Then I had children of my own. She knitted jumpers for them too. Four children — two girls and two boys. The girls grew up, married, and moved far away: one to Singapore, one to England. One son works in the city now, and the youngest is nearly an architect. Nan lived long enough to meet three great-grandchildren, and I loved them because they were my own grandchildren.

The garden became their play area, just as it was mine. Nan would stand at the back door, amused, as the little ones drenched themselves with the hose while “watering” the plants. Their laughter echoed like birdsong, and she would shake her head with that familiar mix of affection and mischief. They would feed the birds on their palms. I would capture them all with my camera. On warm afternoons, we’d gather inside afterwards, towels over our shoulders, watching cricket on the telly — Nan, me, and her grandkids all together, the commentary drifting through the room like a familiar summer breeze.

She lived in the same house all her life — old, worn, but spotless. Her owl collection lined the shelves like silent guardians. She had lived alone for many years, outliving my mother and so many others. With Mum and Dad gone, she became my rock — the steady presence that kept me upright through every storm. Even across oceans, she was my comfort. Even in silence, she was my anchor.

My brother, the soldier, never came back from his service; she carried that grief quietly, too. My husband and I raised our four children, twice as many as my brother and I. How lovely it is to remember gardening with Nan when I was young, then with my children, and later with my grandchildren. The seasons changed, but the garden always held us.

Two years ago, we celebrated Nan’s 100th birthday. We booked an auditorium that seats 100 family and friends. She shone that day, surrounded by a century of love. She enjoyed a few more years, though frailty had begun to settle into her bones. She walked with a frame, but her spirit remained bright.

Then came the fall. The call. The rush to the hospital. She was in pain, but still sweet, still herself. She recovered slowly, and we visited nearly every week. After her 101st birthday, we believed she would return home. My husband and I had already decided to move in with her; she finally agreed, relieved that it would be me caring for her.

But another call came that afternoon. A different tone. A different weight. We hurried back, and she slipped away while holding my hand, giving one last squeeze to show she knew we were there. Just like that, she was gone.

Three months have gone by since we buried her. We've moved into her house now. Our eldest son lives with us, while my husband, our youngest, and I stay here, where Nan lived, loved,, and waited for us.

Some days I sit in her friendship garden, watching the orchids sway in the breeze, half expecting her to appear among them. One hundred and one years of stories — war, depression, love, loss, resilience. A whole century held in her hands, passed gently into mine.

And now the garden is quiet.

Her chair is empty.

Her house breathes differently.

One hundred and one years, and then, just like that, she was gone.