Nan, I really should finally tell you - I absolutely hated that milk pudding you made.
On Wednesday I carried you, your head resting just a foot from my hands. We carried you to lie next to Pop and we sung your favourite hymns. It was a service you would have enjoyed.
It was surreal to walk into your house afterwards and not be greeted by a bear hug. Entering you house was always the same. The kettle was put on to boil before I could even realize you had filled it. Then the food would start to appear and it never seemed to stop. A cup of tea, bread and pickles, date squares, and tea buns, jam and molasses cookies, jam-jams, sweet raisin bread. It was useless to tell you I was not hungry as you fluttered about like a butterfly pulling jars and containers from the cupboards and fridge.
And no lunch was worthy unless something hot was made on the stove. That’s when you would whip up that milk pudding. A little bowl and a steaming hot spoonful of this gelled white mass. It reminded me of Cod liver, I know so many of your daughters and grandchildren lapped that down but I just couldn't take to it. I shoveled it down fast in an effort to pass it through my gums before I could really concentrate on the taste and texture.
Of course you saw the empty bowl and thought: "he's starving" so you would flop an even larger spoonful of this mock cod liver into my bowl. I ate that too, slower.
As I left you would pull a loaf of homemade bread from the freezer and smack the round buns like a baby's bottom. Your hands testing it to make sure it was a good enough loaf for your grandson.
The bread, the squares, homemade pickles and jam it was gold to me. The pudding not so much. I thought I should tell you that. I thought I should also tell you how much I love you, more than you would ever know. Your influence is alive.