The last time I saw my grandmother we were leaving her room at the care home. She was physically diminished but her mind was almost entirely there. I had turned to slow the closing of the glass panelled door behind me, I didn’t want it to slam shut. She was looking at me.
The sun was pouring through the large windows into rectangles on the floor. It wasn’t a bright, white, clear light. It was that deep yellowy-orange honeyed light of Winter/Spring evening. She was swaddled in blankets, in a wheelchair.
Her expression then is hard to describe. A casual observer, a stranger, might have confused it for anger. It was a resolute, hard stare. I knew it as grandma; warmly formidable, genuine, strong.