Hyacinthoides non-scripta, known to some as Campanula Rotundifolia, is known to most of us as the bluebell. Gentle flowers which sway in the wind and bow their heads to the woods. It is said, in the language of the flowers, that the bluebell is a symbol of humility, constancy, gratitude, and everlasting love. The folklore surrounding bluebells is old and curious and, sometimes, very bleak. There is so much sparkling wonder and beauty in a sea of bluebells, and there is also so much sadness and loss.
One of the
last things my Grandma ever painted was a beautiful bluebell wood and I know
she would have eagerly listened to these stories over a cup of tea and a slice
of lemon cake. I can hear her voice commenting on them, expressing surprise at
the darker parts but also filing them away in her mind. I imagine her painting
the bluebells, letting the sunlight fall on their tepals, not to be confused
with petals, to bring out the light, and casting dark shadows from the trees to
acknowledge the dark. I know we could have had a conversation just like that because
my Grandma loved to learn, loved to discover new things, and loved talking
about all of them with her family. In fact, she would have the perfect
recommendations for books that could tell you all about them; facts you would never
have guessed; what kind of gemstone would make the perfect bluebell; how
bluebells were used to bind books; how the toxicity of bluebells might help to
cure illness. However, she would not need a book to tell you the exact shade of
blue you need to paint thousands of watercolour bluebells. Though I believe it
to be a coincidence that my Grandma painted flowers that symbolise all of her
own qualities, humility, constancy, gratitude, and everlasting love, I take comfort
in that coincidence, nonetheless.
I do not know
how to express how much I will miss her voice. I will miss the way she likes to
wear button-up shirts that used to belong to her sons. I will miss seeing her hair
pulled back in headbands because she likes it out the way. I will miss the way
she walks – briskly. I will miss the funny stories she tells. I will miss the
way she pretends to scold my Grandad. I will miss the way he smiles at her when
she does it. I will miss the way she says, “let’s just play one more game”. I
will miss the way she likes to feed the dog from her plate. I will miss being told
that no matter how old I get I will always be “Cuddlebun”. I will miss the way
she does not like tattoos, but she has decided to like mine because it is part
of me. I will miss her saying “never mind, it will all work out in the end”. I
will miss watching the way her fingers turn over the tiles in Bananagrams. I will
miss being able to tell her everything and listen to what she has to say. I
will miss sitting across from her in the camper van, eating ham sandwiches
after we’ve had a walk together by the sea. I will miss the way her face scrunches
up and tears roll down her cheeks when she laughs. I will miss the tight hugs
every time we say goodbye. I will miss knowing that I will always see her on
Wednesdays.
There are so
many funny, wonderful, important things about my Grandma that I will never be able
to express in any language that exists, but I hope she knows that the many days
we have spent together, playing games, painting pictures, drinking tea and
splashing around on the beach are part of who I am and that I would not be who
I am without her magical influence.
