Which moments count the most?

I lay on my side, curled up like a child under the duvet. A partridge cackled loudly outside, probably in the field of sacred basil beyond our garden. For the moment, I kept my eyes tightly shut. I knew the sun wasn’t up yet – although night would already have lifted her blanket high enough to make the slopes of the Soutpansberg Mountains visible. The partridge, however, was clearly already celebrating the new day.

Suddenly I felt a presence in the bedroom. There had been no patter of footsteps, but even with my eyes closed I could sense her. I opened my eyes in the dim light of the awakening dawn and looked straight into Abigail’s tiny face. Her long, fine hair looked as rumpled as I felt at this time of the morning. She stood silently, cuddling a little stuffed cloth rabbit against her chest. I lifted the duvet so that she could snuggle into the warmth of the bed. Her eyes lit up and she hopped up, aiming for a spot between Chris and me.

‘Grandad.’ Abi whispered as she dropped her rabbit and threw her arms around Chris. ‘It’s time to get up.’ His face wrinkled into a smile as he wrapped her in a grandad hug. Then she gathered her soft toy in her arms again and wriggled into position against the pillow that I’d propped against the headboard for her. And just like that, with Abi sitting between us, we began our day trying to answer questions that only seven-year-old grandkids ask.

‘Grandad, what’s this?’ Pulling at a loose mole on his neck.

‘Granny, why’s your skin squishy?’ Patting my upper arm.

Gran, can  you fix my rabbit?

When Chris got up to shower, Abi and I were left chatting. She cradled her rabbit, gently pulling one of his long, floppy ears. He was a creamy colour with thin, black stripes and long, skinny legs; unlike any rabbit I had ever seen. The affable little creature had been Abi’s sleeping companion since birth, but for a few months now he had taken up residence in the wooden chest of drawers in one of our guest rooms. Abi had been delighted to find him there when they arrived on the farm for a week-long visit.

‘Gran.’ Abi’s slender fingers brushed against the rabbit’s face. She paused, as she often does before she’s about to say something momentous. ‘Can you fix my rabbit?’ She fiddled with the holes in the worn fabric near the creature’s threadbare nose, and then showed me another tear next to his mouth and an even bigger rip near his right ear.

‘I’m sure we can sow it up sometime or other,’ I put my arm around her tiny frame and gave her a squeeze, ‘when we have a moment.’ A promise should be okay for now. I was thinking of the list of things I had to do once the day really got going.

Now is a moment.

She lifted her delicate chin upwards and turned her head like a ballerina would, locking her hazel eyes into mine. Behind her, the sun’s rays had begun to pour through the east-facing windows, bathing her fair hair in a golden glow that made her look almost angelic. ‘Now is a moment.’ Her eyes were serious, as if some major, life-saving operation needed to take place immediately. ‘Do you have a needle?’

What a question to ask someone when they are lying in bed contemplating the day’s list of things to do. Why would I have a needle at six in the morning? I had more momentous things to think about. 

Operation Rabbit

‘What’s your rabbit’s name?’ I asked, hoping she might forget about Operation Rabbit if I strayed sufficiently off the topic.

‘Um.’ She hugged him to her chest. ‘He doesn’t have a name.’

I wanted to suggest that such a special toy should have a name. After all, he’d been her guardian of peaceful sleep for nearly seven years. I was even going to suggest some names. But I said nothing and watched her plant a kiss on the rabbit’s head. In that moment, I realised that you don’t have to give something a name for it to be special to you. I wondered why it was so important to her that we mend the rabbit. I mean, she was almost eight. An outdoors, adventurous kid who no longer needed a soft toy to comfort her when she couldn’t fall asleep at night.

Her eyes continued to hold mine, beseeching.

I sighed inside, twisted to my bedside drawer and pulled it open. Inside was a small sewing kit reserved for travelling. Abi leaned forward, eagerly opening it and peering into the container.

At that moment, the aroma of coffee drifted into the room. Chris was not far behind it.  

‘I made you a baby chino, Abi.’ He handed her a small mug of warm rooibos tea topped with foamy milk, and placed my mug of coffee next to me on the bedside table.

Abi closed her eyes and took a long sip. Then she handed me the mug and picked up the sewing kit. ‘Are we going to fix him?’ She picked up a reel of thread. ‘Can we use this colour?’

I made several futile attempts at guiding the thread through the impossibly tiny eye of the needle. Even with my glasses on, I couldn’t see the hole. This is going to take more than a moment, I thought.

‘I can help you, Gran.’ I could just imagine her spiking one of her little fingers, but I handed her the needle and thread and, true as Bob, with a bit of guidance, she managed to do something granny couldn’t do. She smiled sweetly. ‘See Gran. It’s easy peasy, lemon squeezy.’

Operation Rabbit took us about fifteen minutes. With Abi cuddled next to me, I weaved the needle and thread in and out, over and under, until we had fixed all Rabbit’s wounds. We even fashioned Rabbit a new nose. It felt good when we were done. Abigail pulled Rabbit into a warm hug. She nestled her head against his and smiled her thanks.

Memories are made of moments

I suppose memories are a bit like Abi’s rabbit. Sometimes they become worn and tatty. They lie forgotten in a drawer in an old wooden dresser. 

But that morning Abi taught me a few things. Firstly, even the simplest, smallest moments can be momentous. She taught me that now is the time to make moments count. When moments count, memories are made. Without moments, there are no memories. They are part of the fabric of life. Part of a masterpiece that takes a lifetime to capture in full.  

Every now and again, we need to take a moment to reflect on our memories. Dust them off, patch them up and ponder on what was so important about them. Like the featured image of the old Driehoek house on Mattanja that holds so many precious memories. Or the image below of Chris and me taken long long ago when we were students looking forward to making memories together.

And now I have another memory to cherish. It is a picture of a little girl sitting in bed next to her grandmother in a glow of sunlight, showing her what’s important in life.

Looking ahead

Can’t wait to share some more recent moments spent in Glasgow, Windsor and Portsmouth. But that will be another blog…