Judy Darley

Content Warning

dementia

Nan’s taken up yoga. That’s what she tells me. She gets down on the rug in child’s pose, then reaches forward with both arms, sticks her bum in the air, and meows. Her knees and elbows stay on the floor. She calls the pose Upward Cat and says she invented it.

She also claims she came up with the phrase ‘blue sky thinking’ in a dream, and says it’s just a pretty way to describe using your imagination.

I want to ask her why she meows, but don’t quite dare. Perhaps it releases tension. She’s stressed because she’s getting older and all her joints ache and the house and garden really are getting too much. 

Today, I catch her going upstairs on her hands and knees. She shrugs when she sees me stare. “It’s easier, Nieve.”

If she’d really been a cat she would have chosen that moment to sit down for an inappropriate, languid wash, putting me in my place.

“If it would help, we could move your bed,” I begin, and she fixes me with her pebble-hard green stare. I’m sure her eyes used to be brown, like mine. 

“Move my bed?”

“Into the living room or study,” I falter, wishing already that I hadn’t spoken. “So you don’t have to bother with the stairs…”

“The stairs are no problem at all,” she snaps, and then softens. “Why don’t you make us both a cup of tea, mmm?”

I jump to my feet, glad to do something useful at least.

When I come back, shouldering the stiff door open and taking care not to spill the tea, I don’t spot her at first. I hear a quiet snore. She’s curled up on the sofa. 

I settle beside her and stroke her hair. The grey curls have grown straighter and sleeker. 

She blinks and yawns. “Oh, tea, lovely.”

Instead of raising her cup to her mouth, she holds it steady and dips her head, taking tiny sips with a faint lapping sound. 

I follow her into the garden, where she points out a wood pigeons’ nest in the silver birch above a sea of four-leaf clovers. Nan always claimed good luck was a state of mind we could choose. Even growing old is lucky, when you consider the alternative. 

Pigeon guano has splashed the overgrown lawn white. 

“What a mess!”  Nan bares her teeth and presses her hand to the tree trunk, curving her fingers so the nails dig at the wood. One of the pigeons launches into the air in a flurry of flapping. 

I wonder about getting her a collar with a bell on it, and then correct myself – a necklace, not a collar, a necklace with a bell.

She lifts her chin and beams. “Look!”

I stare upwards. Above us I see nothing but sky that’s an exact match for Nan’s acrylic blue jumper.

I touch her head lightly and she leans into my palm. Each breath vibrates in her chest with a subtle rumble, like purring.

Judy Darley is the author of short fiction collections The Stairs are a Snowcapped Mountain, Sky Light Rain and Remember Me to the Bees. Her words have been published and performed on BBC radio, coastal walks and boats, in museums, caves and art studios. Find Judy at http://www.skylightrain.com; https://twitter.com/JudyDarley.