communion in the light breaking through

Late light shines on the glass and metal cladding of the building I can see out my window. My thoughts turn to my granny, who broke a leg, then her hip and never walked unaided again. The last two decades of her life were clipped ones.
I sense her here beside me. I hear her frustrated talk; I think of her watching the tennis, playing cards, reading romances. Her life diminished to a chair by a window that you knocked on and she passed you the front door key through to get in.
I'd always been very close to her and feel closer still today. As she sits where I sit, watches what I watch and reads what I read. We look out the window in unison, our eyes caught by the sun breaking through after a grey day of rain. Hope framed by our window to the world.
Then we turn our gaze inwards to the room that is our day. We rise and, step by weight bearing step, we hobble our way to the kitchen to make a simple cup of tea. Plain: no milk, no sugar.
We roll the tea trolley back into our room. The sun is dimmed. As I sit by the window my granny evaporates to where she went all those years  ago. Where she fell to. I take a scalding sip of the drink that became my drink from years of living with her and I suddenly see through the rising steam what her life was those final decades. Granny, I have found you again, and suddenly understand everything you were trying to tell us. I wished we understood better at the time, and I promise to live the life you lost when I walk unaided into the world beyond.