Love story

Last weekend was spent at my grandparents' house with Granny and Grandpa, G, and my brother and sister. My Grandpa is not well. He has several ailments, all of which combine to make life pretty hard at the moment- though the worst he'll ever admit to feeling is an understated "not brilliant". He is 80 years old and until now, has always been very mobile. I can picture him dancing with Granny at his 80th birthday party last October as we all looked on, both of them wearing the smile of the in love but slightly self-concious- a first wedding dance smile. As a vicar who has never really retired, my iconic image of Grandpa is of him standing at the altar facing away from the congregation in his sweeping cassock, arms holding bread and wine aloft as he prepares Communion.

My grandparents are working together to negotiate these new obstacles. The week before we stayed had been particularly hard. But on Saturday morning Granny was glowing: after having had very little appetite, Grandpa had woken up and fancied a full English breakfast. Before the housefull of lumbering twentysomethings had roused itself, Granny had dressed, driven to the nearby town and bought bacon, eggs and sausages. Happy because her husband was feeling brighter; happy because she could strengthen him with the sizzle of a pan.

After a breakfast I glimpsed a private moment in the hall; Grandpa holding Granny tenderly at the elbows
"Thankyou, my love"
"It's the least I can do for you, any time of day or night"
A kiss, her hand reaching to touch his cheek.

Like many people, in the past I've been one to fill up with tears and release an internal "awww" when I see an old couple holding hands in the supermarket. Our society puts people into boxes, and, alongside less flattering labels, the elderly are often at best popped into the box marked "sweet"; their love seen as quaint, mild- the companionship of old chums. Meanwhile, the breathless, uncertain love of the young, the newly-met, is the ideal; our aspirations spangled across cinema screens and the pages of paperbacks.

The dance of my grandparents' marriage may be slower and more considered than it used to be. But- and I've always thought this, but never more so than last weekend- when I see them together, bound by a thousand strong ropes of  respect and loyalty, joy and adversity,  I don't see a love that is  "sweet" or "cute". It's fierce and passionate, and delicate too. This is what I saw: Granny caring for Grandpa because she loves him, not because that's what a spouse must do; his discomfort an anathema to her, as much as it ever would have been were they thirty years old; Grandpa's admiration for Granny blooming further as they travel this difficult terrain, as they have done a hundred hardships before.

It's a love story any of us would be lucky to live.