My grandparents’ bedroom was a sea of books, boxes, papers and oddities—a sprawling collectionthat has followed Gramma through countless moves, and still survives (and grows!) to this day.
In that cottage bedroom, amid a veritable jungle of stuff, was a tiny, paneless window no biggerthan a dinner plate. It was Gramma’s special window that looked over the living room below. Shetold me once that any time she was feeling sad, she would sit at that window; Grampa would seeher, head upstairs, and put right whatever might be wrong. As a child I always believed it to be asort of magic window.
After Grampa died, the manifestations of his absence happened slowly, in pieces, for our family.There was a sense we had lost our calm centre. I’m guessing that as much as he was the arbiter oftable manners, he had also been the arbiter of family disputes.
Minor tensions reared themselves more visibly than before. Most of them resolved with time. Oneof them just wouldn’t.
I am not entirely sure what happened between my uncle and the rest of the family. Whatevertranspired ended sadly, in that estranged-relative story that is familiar to all too many people. Ihaven’t seen or heard from him since I was a teenager.
His disappearance from our lives took with it the cottage. But it was always a small comfort toknow that, in a very technical way , it was still the family’s cottage. This latest piece of news—thesale, I mean—is the last stage in a protracted process of loss.
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