Today is Good Friday, and the weather is fine - the brightest blue sky you've ever seen - and I can't recall where I was when I heard my grandmother had been taken to hospital.
She was a devout Catholic, but had a wicked sense of humour. Fittingly, she felt ill when at church watching The Stations of the Cross which was always performed by students of my former primary school. I say 'fittingly' not because one always feels unwell at church, and especially so if having to sit through students clumsily reenacting Christ's crucifixion whilst a giant (probably plaster or plastic) and pained looking Jesus views from the wall above, but because she suffered on the same day as the Lord.
She was in a coma in intensive care on the Friday and Saturday, and the day the Lord rose to heaven so did she.
I was 15 at the time and have memories of the hospital, and the waiting room, and fellow family members, and myself, very upset... but I can't remember where I was when I heard that she was in hospital. A couple of years earlier and I likely would have been at church with her.
I can remember where I was when I heard Princess Diana died. I can remember where I was when, watching live, planes flew into the Twin Towers. I can remember where I was when the Boxing Day tsunami happened. But I can't remember where I was when I heard that my beloved, healthy, vibrant, and strong grandmother was in intensive care.
Perhaps some things are just too close to home to remember, to want to remember.
Anyway, although I can recall the date she died, it is always at Easter that I remember her even more than usual. She figured that one out pretty well. No forgetting Easter.
Of course she was not forgettable. Not at all. My life would have been hugely lacking if it weren't for her. At least I remember that.