Timothy Daly
An unkept promise to myself
finally agreeing
to visit her as she was dying
I saw as if for the first time
the Welsh mountain snow
and her wheelchair smile
Nain spoke a Welsh that was more like a song. When she wasn’t in an apron, she was in a flower dress. I can hear her now, chuckling as she takes the shortbread out of the oven. Strawberry punnets on her balcony meant the shy summer was overtaking spring.
We would walk along the pier in the Llandudno sea breeze and pause when her heart hurt. I never understood how such a good one could be so weak.
But that was what got her: she chuckled less as loved ones were lost and she descended into a wheelchair.
She still loved her days out with scampi and tartare sauce, her mind softening like her trembling hands that held mine so tenderly in the car.
She would sing too the songs she knew, and when I choked out my first words in Welsh, all she had to say with a smile was “Da iawn” (very good).
And now she’s dust and no longer around, I know I must learn her song and make her proud.
Author’s Note: “Nain,” pronounced like the English number nine, means “grandmother” in North Wales.
About the Author
Dr. Timothy Daly was born in the British Isles and reborn in Paris, where he currently lives. He is a nomad in the physical, intellectual, and linguistic sense and juggles life as a researcher working on Alzheimer’s disease, a teacher of language and philosophy, and writer of short-form poetry and prose.