On Ageing Parents

The pre-mourning that no one talks about

I remember holding my grandmother’s hands. They were always warm. Her thin skin, dotted with liver spots, her veins so visible I liked to trace the blue, green and purple lines as we sat and talked. Her nails were always painted (and hello, am I ever her granddaughter in that sense) and she rubbed Oil of Olay into those hands a few times a day, religiously.

I realised the other day that my mother’s hands are starting to become like this too. They’re warm and small and have those visible veins and they’ve done so many things with so much love over her 74 years. Now when I find myself holding her hands, I don’t want to let go.

Because suddenly, be it her small, warm hands, her rapidly whitening hair or the wrinkles on her face, it’s becoming more and more difficult to ignore the fact that she is in fact, ageing. And one day, she won’t be here.