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Songbird

with love, your granddaughter.

By Evonne Penname Published 2 years ago 7 min read
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Songbird
Photo by Mathias Elle on Unsplash

English breakfast tea reminds me of my grandad. He’s not dead no, but It just reminds me of him. Clearly, it’s his favourite tea. I never really have seen him drink anything else. Maybe earl grey? But every time we go out to a café – it’s the same tea, English breakfast.

My grandma used to drink it too. So much so that when I wanted to start drinking tea that wasn’t just my usual blend of Camomile honey and vanilla. I chose English breakfast, because I’d seen them enjoy it so much. And I have It the same way I’d always see them make it. The tea, then milk and a little bit of sugar. Only a touch. I’d seen them make it multiple times. Whether it be in their house – or at a café that they’d take us to.

You see, my parents divorced when I was very young – and mum had to go from stay-at-home mum to having to return to the workforce. And so, when I was ill or my brothers were – or if in the holidays she wanted to take a break and fly to the west coast for some “me” time, our maternal grandparents would take us. And we’d stay – watch some cartoons on Foxtel until grandad decided he wanted to watch a western or grandma decided she wanted to watch a classic musical from the 50s. Good ol’ Shirley temple or singing in the rain. For people who were teens to 20s in the 50s – I can see why’d they’d like them so much. My grandad was quite musical after all and often sang and danced a little jig to grandma – which I never really saw her react to, except maybe a smile or a kiss when she grabbed or got handed her tea.

And returning to English breakfast tea – during these times where our grandparents would take us. They’d take us to this pre-determined café. It wasn’t a fancy little one with its own shop front. It was one of those kiosks you see in shopping centres. Ones that are kind of in the way and you need to manoeuvre around. We’d always go there, in sickness or health. And my grandparents knew every staff member by name. my grandparent without fail would order English breakfast while we’d get babycinos- or hot chocolates and cookies or cakes. My order was often a babycino or hot chocolate with a smiley cookie, until I tasted the ethereal taste of the macadamia and white chocolate cookies they sold. No other place has had such a cookie so sublime. The perfect dryness that let the cookie crumble in your mouth and melt on your tongue. Large and thick enough to conceal pieces of macadamia nuts and white chocolate.

I don’t remember when I started ordering them, but when I did, I never stopped. No other Macadamia white chocolate cookie could COMPARE to how good the cookies were from this café in particular. Store bought ones are too soft, moist and don’t crumble at all.

We’d always drive to this café as it was at a shopping centre and the drives were always cold and boring. Listening to 3AW – the only joy was hearing “HELLO~” (emphasis and dragging on the o sound) “FRANK WALKER FROM NATIONAL TILES” – fun fact, I never knew where national tiles was located until I was 19. But the sound of that man’s nasally enthusiastic voice while he talked about a store that sold tiles of all things made the journey of going to that café, along with maybe a hum or two by grandad.

Grandad’s always been a bit of a songbird. Cheery – humming to his love and breaking out into a little dance with her. It was always fun to watch and was a true act of love – like I’d never seen before. It was a shame when that song was snuffed out by the passing of my grandma.

It’s been nearly 5 years since she passed and as it turns out – I am far more like my grandad than I once thought. The song had been burning out the closer grandma was to death’s door; stress had long posed a threat to the songs – but grandad remained resilient. His whole life revolved around his wife, and his happiness was so evident on his face and his way of talking. Sometimes he could be an asshole, absolutely, but his love was there, and always conquered. It was so admirable. My grandmother had dementia and Alzheimer’s, and over the course of 8 years she faded, she was remarkable though – a true one in a million case. She remembered all her grandchildren’s names until very near the end, all her children’s names until the very end, and always knew who exactly her husband was – who the songbird who would serenade her was. Her decline was very slow – so excruciatingly slow, but she was still there in her last year, it was very small, but she was. The end was very fast, maybe a week or two. She recognised us all – she could barely speak at that point so I can never know if she still knew my name, but she recognized me. She recognized everyone.

Grandad grew quite Ill after that. wrought with grief, understandably, he’d lost the love of his life. His song became quickly snuffed out. The last time I saw it was a month or so after her death, at least it was the last time I’d seen it at that level – paralleling something that I’d seen with grandma.

And I’d caused it.

You see, I learnt a lot about my grandad at my grandma’s funeral. Out of the couple, my grandad was the introverted one. And his love for song and dance reflected the way he’d first met and asked out my grandma. They’d both frequented dances when they were younger and my grandad was awfully shy – and, well I don’t quite remember the story but as I remember it – she’d taken the initiative, and he followed through. I remember hearing that and thinking “Fuck I am more like grandad than I thought”. They’d had a real romance and the ‘honeymoon period’ never seemed to had die down in grandad – until his honey had.

A couple weeks after her death I had my debutante ball. I’d been preparing for it for the duration of the time after her death and my mum, her two sisters (my aunts), my bros and my grandad all went to watch me dance. And on that night, we were told something about after the dance – there’d be a parent-child dance, where we could get our guardian or someone close and ask them to dance. Now from memory I cannot remember if that was only directed at the boys or not, but I did it anyway.

Instead of asking that my mum ask to dance with me, I asked my grandad. I don’t regret it one bit. Because I saw him again, I saw the man I’d grown up watching sing and dance around his kitchen.

Though he was right in my face and swinging me around, weaving through other students dancing with their mums or dads. I was a little embarrassed, and I can say I am a little embarrassed by the display – but I don’t regret it one bit. My aunts cried and my mum was so proud of me that she didn’t hang as much shit on me about not picking her to dance with (which I did after grandad had spun me around for what felt like forever).

I remember it clearly, His nostrils right in my face as I tried to keep up, as he cheerily sung the Michael bubble song blasting through the speakers of the hall. It made me happy, it made me embarrassed as all hell, and for months after he kept cheerily joking to me “Well I wish you would of told me we were going to dance, I would of worn better shoes.”

It was a sign of his grief loosening the chokehold it had on his heart. It’s still there, it always will be. Every photo of her he looks at, every song he listens to, every western he watches will be tainted in her, but five years on he’s better.

And slightly insufferable. As I said, his life revolved around grandma. Literally. He’s now bored and at a loss without her, he moved into a senior home and did start making more friends with old people – still goes down to the café now he lives right next door to the shopping centre, and he also calls my mum DAILY to worry about if he’s taking the right meds and absolutely driving my mum up the wall. Cause guess what, my grandfather is a fuss pot with anxiety.

My mum has a father who is an introverted anxious mess – and a daughter who Is an introverted anxious mess. So unfortunately, I am far more like my grandad than I once thought, but I’ll be damned if I don’t find the person, I’m a songbird to. Maybe I need to frequent community dances? Would that be a club? how do I-

grief
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About the Creator

Evonne Penname

Call me Evonne - Though it is not my name. I want to (for now) seperate my work from my life.

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