Came back from Hanoi late last night, and found that my grandmother had passed away while we were there. I had half-expected it, as she had gone downhill very much in the last few weeks. She was just three months shy of her 100th birthday. I saw her in April and we shared a very long hug; she was so frail then that I — and she, too, no doubt — had to suspect that we were saying goodbye. I loved her very much and am sorry she’s no longer here, but she had a peaceful end, which we are all very grateful for.

It is quite something to think of all the changes and upheavals that she lived through and witnessed — almost the entire 20th century. Never against modernisation — it was a hard life, as she said, before washing machines — she was nonetheless distressed by environmental rapine and the destruction of both natural and urban beauty. She was a keen and knowledgeable gardener; I wish I could have downloaded all that she knew about plants and their cultivation onto a memory chip, so that, when wanting the name of a flower or tree, its native habitats, preferred positions and flowering seasons, to add specificity to some piece of writing, I could call on her expertise.

She had an artistic bent, which she expressed in her garden, clothes and home; refinement without stiffness was her preferred register of existence and vulgarity was anathema to her. To use a very old-fashioned word, she was a gentlewoman. I hope I can keep her virtues in mind and become more like her in those ways in which her character always impressed me, so far as I can — her graciousness, kindness and patience in most of her dealings with other people, particularly (let’s face it, I’m not going to be able to lose my vulgarity even if I wanted to). I am already like her in being whimsical, vague and absent-minded, so at least that’s a start.

A ghost:
I phoned Mum this morning, and at the end of our conversation she said, “She’s with Papa now. Definitely. I know it.” My mother isn’t given to empty platitudes, but she is given to occasionally seeing things that other people do not, so I asked her what she meant. Two months ago, she said, she walked into the living room and saw my late grandfather sitting on the couch. Then she told me that her brother had seen him just two weeks ago, and that the ghost spoke to him, saying, “Don’t cry when your mother dies.”

I remember that when my other grandmother died, early in the morning, before I knew she was dead, on the otherwise clean and empty floor was an advertisement page from a magazine. It was a Telecom ad, showing an elderly woman on the phone, with the slogan, “It’s Grandma.”

I still only hope for, rather than believe in, life after death; but I find these strange occurrences reinforce the hope. Perhaps it’s just a coincidence, but since the morning after she died, without knowing she was gone, I have been drawing a lot, sometimes with the sense that the pencil is moving by itself — and flowers and foliage keep working their way into the pictures.

I will go down to Chinatown this morning, since my grandmother was from Bendigo  and had an affinity for things Chinese (as did her father, though his affinity was perhaps more strictly for fan-tan), and burn some incense at one of the Taoist temples. And then have a quiet day, and keep drawing.

Stu and I are excited to say that we are now uncle and aunty. Stu’s sister Catherine gave birth by c-section to Khalil Imran Bishop Slamet last month (delay in announcement due to harassed parents not being able to decide on the order of his first names - a Bishop event would not be quite itself without an element of delay, as he will no doubt discover as he gets older).

Here he is:

With Catherine:

And dad, Roly, who has done this before and clearly knows something about snatching sleep from the jaws of being kept awake at all hours:

I’m sorry Stu and I won’t see more of him, but we might be back in Australia by the time he’s a toddler. At any rate, to Khalil, salaam aleikum and welcome to earth (sorry about the mess!). We look forward to meeting you!