My grandmother lived until she was 98, a very devout mother of four who had seen good times and bad in her long life. My father, Harry, was her youngest child, and the others would say that their mother would skin them to make a coat for Harry! Yes, he was the favourite, but then, he was a good and loving son. He was always there for her.
Grandma enjoyed good health as a rule, but there were episodes of trouble when she would insist that she was dying ‘this time.’ On one such occasion, she was hospitalised and was drifting in and out of consciousness. Dad had elected to stay with her, and had been at her bedside for a considerable time. He was wearily leaning on his elbows, tired-eyed and sleepless, when a little moan escaped her lips. Her eyelids fluttered. She looked at him.
‘Is that you, Jesus?’ she weakly asked, gazing adoringly at the figure seated at her side.
‘No Mum, it’s me, Harry,’ her son replied.
‘’s you Harry! I thought I had died and gone to Heaven! It looked like Jesus sitting there...!
So much for a mother’s love.