Snowdrops and crocus are up but that won't do. I want spring. Now.
Too early, yes I know.
My father's bruised back has turned out be a lumbar fracture requiring surgery. He tried his best to act haughty and superior during his week in hospital but his voice sounded like that of a lost child. Today, of course, all this has passed as he lectured me over the phone on the future plans which basically involve him learning to walk unaided again. He is most confident that this will be achieved by mid March as he has tickets booked for operas and whatnots. His female friends here and there may get impatient. And no, no walking aid. Certainly not.
I want to admire his resilience and his arrogance. He could just as easily pack it in, like the next best 86 year old with mobility issues, read the papers, get meals-on-wheels and watch tv. That would be the easy option for us, I know.
I remember my granny just before she died (a few weeks before her 103rd birthday). When I phoned her she used to confuse me with one of her daughters-in-law. Once I tried to correct her but she cut me short. That girl is too young to make phone calls, she said. Stop pretending.
That was twenty years ago, and I don't remember now whether she told me over the phone or someone else who then called me, but one day she decided that this was her last walk, that from now on she will stay indoors. She went to bed and died that night.
My father was her youngest, an unwanted afterthought. There was never much love between them or between him and his father, but he was dearly loved by his siblings, who all died in their early 50s. So those two, mother and son, had to battle it out for long years all alone. Sometimes, this makes me so sad, other times it explains a lot. But mostly it's just a confusing mess.
I know that I try to push my idea of family onto him. He fights it mostly. But as long as I come with a cake or some other treats, he'll open the door.