On this day in 1997, my Nana died in Loughlinstown Hospital. I still miss her a lot, for the record.
On this day in 1997, I was offered a place in college. It was my first choice, for the record.
I like to think she would have appreciated the bittersweet juxtaposition.
She lived with us, my father’s mother, until she was ninety years of age, roughly two years before she died. She was a constant presence in my life until I was eighteen and my memories of growing up are full of memories of her.
There was the time she wrapped the packages for a game of pass the parcel at my birthday party and she only put on one layer of gift wrap – we stopped the game so my mum could re-wrap all the parcels.
Every day, while she was able, she went to the park to meet her friends, people she first met when she moved to Rathfarnham aged almost seventy-five.
There were many Sunday mornings that she made a pot of tea and buttered slices of bread before she walked upstairs to wake my sister and I to go to mass and us dragging our heels and giggling over the silliest things.
Coming home from school, outside the house on the footpath, you could hear the TV blaring – Thelma and Derek presenting Live at Three, her watching intently, dog-eared prayerbook in her hands.
There were days she was reading to me and she fell asleep in the chair and I, mercilessly, childishly, shook her back to wakefulness.
I miss you, Nana.