He, gruff, sometimes cranky but with a heart of gold beneath the bluster.
She, gentle, with a ready laugh and a finely tuned sense of the humour and ridiculousness of life.
They loved each other. It was always clear.
They raised a family. Two sons, one of them my father.
They worked, cared, grew vegetables and tended snapdragons and stocks and marigolds in their garden.
They welcomed and deeply loved four grandchildren.
There are cherished memories of vegetables in the garden, of trips to the royal show, of playground visits, tram rides and a thickly iced pink match filled with cream from the cake shop in Puckle Street.
Then came 1983 and with it cancer. Insidious, painful lung cancer. She hadn't smoked a cigarette in her life.
She struggled through treatments but the cancer spread and pain bristled cruelly all over her body. You could almost see it, creeping through, wreaking its destruction. Fucking cancer.
They came to 1984. Late May. She could fight no more. Palliative care would be her last tram stop. She lay there, unconscious, her bed surrounded with love and hope. He sat beside her, holding her hand, willing her to go on, but knowing she didn't have it in her. Much love, but little hope.
Next day. Etched forever. He fires a bullet from his boyhood shotgun through his brain. Kitchen floor, the worst discovery. He dies at midday.
She lives on, for another 17 hours. Not conscious but still breathing. Something within her knows it's time to let go. She dies peacefully.
Some months later, there is a note, found tucked inside his favourite gardening book. I don't remember the exact words but the message was clear.
"Forgive me, I want to go with her."
They loved each other. It was always clear.
Nan, wherever you are, Happy Mother's Day. I miss you and I wish you could have seen your great grandchildren. They are sunshine.
Pop, I love you and I miss you too. And I understand, I do.
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