I'm not grieving for the feeble old woman lying on the bed.
I'm grieving for the 2 year old who lost her mother.
And the girl who cried herself to sleep at night because her stepmother didn't want her.
And the teenager who loved youth fellowship activities at her church.
And for the able young lady who sewed army uniforms during the war years.
And for the bride who made her own wedding dress.
And for the woman who gave birth to my father and three uncles.
And for the lady who, like me, was princess in a household of men.
And for the wife who nursed her husband after he lost his leg.
And for the widow who went from looking after five men to none in just a couple of years.
For the grandmother I called Nenor
Who sewed obsessively, making her own patterns,
Who baked the most delicious scones for us every week (her tip was to use cream instead of butter),
And looked after us while our parents went out,
And taught us how to make bows for our hair (very fashionable when we were in primary school),
And believed in us.
She lived by herself for 35 years,
Outlasting all her contemporaries.
I'm grieving for the woman who, at age 95, became resigned to death because she could see no other future.
I'm grieving for the soul who was so practiced at unbelief that she couldn't accept the hope of eternal life even when she had nothing else to cling to.
My dear Nenor 1917-2012.