A gift from the dead

When people leave this earth, I think they leave a gift behind. A part of themselves. For us to enjoy. A gift from the departing. A gift from the dead. Something for us to hold onto. To remember them by. To know their time here. To know they are not far. Funny gifts. Unexpected gifts. Of things we once thought insignificant. Superfluous. And then we realise. They leave us with their love. Their love of something. Our love of them. Through what they loved. Through what they enjoyed in life.

I never liked blue cheese. Who would like cheese that has gone mouldy. I could not understand it. It looked off. It smelt. My Dad, on the other hand, loved it. Could not get enough of it. And the day after he died, he handed me his love of blue cheese. His gift to me was to appreciate mouldy cheese. And for this, I am thankful. Grateful. For many a wine has been enjoyed since his passing, with such a cheese. Who would have thought Dad would have chosen this gift for me. I remember it, distinctly. We were making lunch at my parents place after spending the day before at the hospital. To say goodbye. His chair at the dining room table, vacant. Never again to be occupied. We were putting out bread rolls, gluten free bread for me. Sliced tomato. Lettuce. Salami and cheese. And for some reason, I will never be able to explain, I was compelled to make my sandwich with blue cheese. And I have never looked back. I love it. And every time I have it, I think of my father. It was his gift to me.

Our daughter was only 21 months old when her Nanna passed away. When we had to say goodbye to a sensational woman way before her time. My husband’s mother. My mother-in-law. Our children’s Nanna. A wonderful woman. And it has always bought such joy and delight to my heart, as my daughter has shown the things her Nanna passed to her as she left this earth. The gifts. Her love of what is called a ‘Nanna Special’. Sweets after dinner. Or a snack after school. Bread with cream and jam. And Christmas. I have never known anyone to love Christmas as much as she did. She loved bringing her family together. She loved having everyone for dinner. Everyone around the tree. She loved the decorations. Our daughter loves Christmas just as much. A gift. One Christmas tree is never enough in our house. My daughter has an additional two in her room. A small miniature tree with tiny decorations on her desk. A tree near her dresser. And she loves decorating our family room tree. Christmas in our house sometimes starts in September, with Christmas carols. The tree is always up on 1 December without fail. And I know. This love of Christmas, that she has, is a gift, which has come from her Nanna. Something she left behind for us all to enjoy. To remember her by. For her to be here with us through time.

I remember the day the call came through. The news. That Andrew had gone. A car accident. Coming back from the snow. He was just 32 years of age. He was my husband’s best friend. He was an extension of my husband. They came as a package deal. A boyfriend and a loyal friend. We hung out together and thought we would grow old together. Inseparable friends. He would be the guardian of our children. We would be the guardian of his. That is, if we ever approved of any of his girlfriends. If we ever agreed one was good enough for him, to be his life long partner. So perhaps it should be of no surprise that some five years later our son was born on Andrew’s birthday. Yes, the exact same day, just 37 years later. It was a very special moment when Jill, Andrew’s mother, came in to the hospital the day of our son’s birth, to welcome him into our lives. She brought with her a very special gift. A hand knitted beanie. Which Andrew wore as a newborn. And our son did too. And our son shared Andrew’s love of white chocolate. A gift. People would often comment how unusual it was for such a young boy to not like chocolate other than white chocolate. But we knew where this love came from. We knew Andrew was nearby. Never forgotten.

Chocolate, cheese and Christmas. How funny these things are. And yet, they bring with them the love we have for those long gone. A memory. A reminder. A way of living on. A gift from the dead. Not keeping them alive as heroes, but as ordinary people with the love for everyday things. Food and festivities for them to live through. For us to have them in our hearts. Nearby. In life.