My gran is rude, she snaps, she says the very thing you should not say. Yet my gran is gentle, observing. She slows to see the beauty in the smallest things around her.

My gran cares so deeply about her garden. She nourishes and tends to it day after day, consistently showing her care. My gran has been hardened by experiences unkind to her; she has built up a wall. But her winter passes and she soon softens again when she feels a glimpse of spring.

The bluebells return and I can see how the excitement bubbles within her, how the sight of them ignites warm memories of when she could translate the beautiful scene to the canvas in front of her. When her hands were strong enough to hold the paintbrush.

My gran has grown so weak she cannot lock the front door, but my gran is strong. She marches alongside me, at times marching off in front. My gran forgets where we are marching to. One morning she didn’t recognise my sister in a photo, but soon after she asks whether Chesca knows what variety of clematis creeps down the wall of her garden.

My gran contradicts herself in so many ways. She is frail, strong, sarcastic, serious, content, lonely, bitter and sweet.