A mighty few stay pickeled til they're ninety two
A poem was found in amongst my Nan's possessions, she wasn't one for holding onto poems and cut offs unless it held some kind of sentimental value to her. Whether this was given to her or it just ressonated with her I'm unsure but I must say it gave us all a giggle upon finding it.
The Preservation of Man
The horse and mule live thirty years, and nothing know of wines and beers.
The goat and sheep at twenty die, with never a taste of scotch or rye.
The cow drinks water by the ton, and at eighteen is mostly done.
The dog at sixteen cashes in, without the aid of rum or gin.
The cat in milk and water soaks, and then in twelve short years it croaks.
The modest, sober, bone dry hen, lays eggs for nogs then dies at ten.
All animals are strictly dry, they sinless live and swiftly die.
But sinful, ginful rum-soaked men, survive for three score years and ten.
And some of us, the mighty few, Stay pickled till we're ninety two.
I know you're probably thinking that as a Grandparent she must have been old and it was expected. Sadly it was very unexpected and we all believed she would live until at least ninety two if not one hundred. Just because someone has lived a long full life, it doesn't make it any easier for those left behind.
I read a quote this morning that went like this; "When someone you love becomes a memory, the memory becomes a treasure." You become petrified of losing those memories, desperately trying to cling on to the image of their face, their laugh, the way they looked at you when you'd done something wrong. In the cold hours of the early morning, before sunlight has fallen upon the trees you try your best to conjure up a part of them, hurting your head and causing pain to your heart as you struggle to remember little parts of them.
This is why I document my life, I want to make sure I never forget those memories.
Give whomever you hold dear in your heart and extra big cuddle today, treasure it forever.