Tomorrow I will be taking a train into my past. I will be hurtling along the tracks to Montreal, to face people I haven't seen in years. I'm terrified, but I must go.

Nanny died.

She wasn't my grandmother, but I came to regard her as such. On that terrible day when I was five, and my mother took me out to the rotting stump in front of the Cottage to tell me Grandma had gone to Heaven, my little heart broke for the first time. As I sobbed and wailed, my friend TG came and put her arms around me, and said, in her little six-year-old voice, "You can share my grandparents." And I did, in all the years that followed.

When I was six and I split my head open on an end table, Nanny was the one who washed the blood away and kept me calm till my parents could be located. When TG and I were in school together, I often had lunch at her house (Grandpa made great soups). When my parents died, she was there - with pastries and pies, with hugs and a place to escape to if I needed it. She made a kickass hot pepper jelly that I would devour during turkey dinners at the Cottage. I was lucky enough to be at her 65th wedding anniversary party in 2000, when the letter from the Queen was read out, congratulating the couple on their longevity. When I got married, she gave me the lovely crystal wine goblets that I still use today. I last saw her 3 years ago, when Mr. Right and I were visiting from Scotland. I made it a point to go visit her, and I'm glad I did.

Nanny saw my whole life. And on Saturday morning, I will pay tribute to hers. For this I will make the journey into my past.

Rest in peace, Nanny. You had a good long life, and you didn't suffer. In the end, it's all any of us can ask for.

Labels: Ghosts, Personal