It was my grandmother's 90th birthday last week, but on the big day itself she was so unwell that she was unaware of the great age she had reached.
She spent the day collapsing in on herself, akin to a great dying star whose own weight is too much for it. She too has the distance and aloofness of a star, unmoved as others orbit around her.
For lack of anything else to do, I started to look around my grandmother's room at the assortment of photographs and heirlooms put there for her.
There's a photograph of my grandmother on her wedding day with my late grandfather. In recent months, gran's illness has caused her to confuse my father and her late husband:
Father: Who am I?
Grandmother: Walter.
F: How can I be Walter? Am I as old as you?
G: I don't know how, but you're Walter. You always get me raffled up [confused].
In addition to the photograph, there is my grandfather's commemorative plate, given to him after he'd completed 36 years at the steelworks:
THE UNITED STEEL COMPANIES LTD
FOR LONG SERVICE
W STEVENSON 36 YEARS
SAMUEL FOX AND COMPANY LIMITED
My father saw me pick up the plate to have a closer look and commented: "That's all you get for giving your life to them - a bloody plate."
It reminded me of the spoils of war. Go into battle, and give so much that the body is irreparable; and the reward for this is a to become a piece of metal with your name on, the hero who was taken all too quickly.
The best years of a man's life, and the sweetness of retirement, exchanged for the proletarian's equivalent of a medal. Toil and sweat, endlessly, but at least you're given something upon which those left behind can rest your ashes.
