A decade without

Ten years ago today, my grandmother passed away. I can't believe it's been 10 years, a whole decade.
She was a little old lady with a grey bun, who baked and played scrabble. From a distance she was the stereotypical Grandma, but if you came a little bit closer she was wicked.

Sure she played Scrabble, but she often would put down swear words that would make a truck driver proud. At her 80th birthday she told me one of the crudest jokes I've ever heard. Then there was the time when someone commented on how she and I looked alike, she paused, looked at me and said: "Goodness I'm not that ugly, am I?" All with her tongue planted firmly in her cheek and her hand over mine.

I miss her dearly and when I smell ANZAC biscuits baking or a whiff of Pears soap I miss her more. When I glimpse sweet peas or irises or hear the tock of a grandfather clock I think of her.

One of the last times I saw her, she asked if I believed in ghosts. I said that I wasn't sure. She said to me: "If there is I'll make sure I come back and haunt you."

She now has seven great grandchildren in my kids and their cousins that she never met and that feels odd. Just when I feel sad about that I look at my little girl with the curls looking at me saying: "Poo-poo bum, mum" and I know she's not really that far away at all.