butterfly wings
June 20 
My Nan was in love with Luciano Pavarotti.
No one else could move her like the singing sofa.
With his beautiful and blessed voice booming magnificently from her old turntable,
she was transfixed, transported.
Nessun Dorma was by far her favourite, reducing her to tears at each sitting.
She would become lost, nestled in her armchair, hands knitted, her little eyes closed tight against the flutter of memories, bittersweet and brave.
With every ounce of strength she would fight the tears, her lips moving with his,
her resolve strong, of little use by the time the chorus conspired with
Il nome suo nessun sapra!...
e noi dovrem, ahime, morir
to bring the tears rolling down her cheeks.
"Beautiful, beautiful.." she would whisper as the crescendo died and vincero
was swept away with tramontate, stelle!
Preparing to visit Nan for the final time last year, knowing that my moments with her would be to say goodbye, I knew instinctively what to do.
I would play her Nessun Dorma.
Mum and Nan and I would sit and knit our hands together. We would rejoice in the lament of Luciano, we would close our eyes together and fight our tears until the chorus could hold it back no longer.
It would be farewell. It would be eternal. It would be beautiful.
e noi dovrem, ahime, morir
But Nan died before we even got to Hong Kong.
Before we arrived in Sheffield she was lying cold, sad and alone in the funeral home.
Of this my memory is eternal. My memory is horrible.
But as I organized her funeral I knew what would be booming out of the speakers as we brought her down to the front of the church.
It would be her Luciano and Nessun Dorma.
Of course there was not a dry eye in the house.
Pavarotti made sure of that.
And it was beautiful.
I could feel Nan with me, her gentle touch a butterfly kiss against my cheek.
Two weeks later as I consoled Mum with a holiday in Spain and we wandered the cobblestoned streets of Seville, an unexpected turn down a lonely alley brought us to a square and an old gift store.
Sitting outside the shop on a wooden bench, sat a thin old man, his worn suit, his crooked cap, a flashback to an earlier time. His eyes were closed, his lips were pursed, but against his ear was pressed a transistor radio and as we wandered closer to the store window he brought it down to his chest instinctively, as if to let us hear what was playing.
Oh, it was beautiful.
Was it, could it be?
Yes, it was Pavarotti.
It was Nessun Dorma.
And it was Nan. Oh, it was Nan...
And I felt her hand...
While a lot of things happen as if by chance, I don't see much as random.
While I can't quite explain my belief system, I am happy feeling my way around barefoot, balancing on beliefs in connectedness, patterns and meaning, a certain delicious synchronicity.
And the more I believe it, the more I see it too.
My Nan believed it to the end and, across space and time, her thoughts reach out to me, fluttering gossamer against my temples...
"aye luv, our thoughts are living things..."
I must credit this Butterfly Effect on my consciousness, these fabulous fluttering figments of feeling as being the result of a most thought provoking post by the wise, witty and incisive KellyPea of Kellementology.
While I felt myself being enticed towards a tag where I would inevitably reveal eight random facts about myself, I was grateful for the insightful introspection it might bring.
Lately, such occurences have been the result of substance abuse and unintelligible conversations with The Gatekeeper...
8 "random" facts
1. I was The Child Born On The Sabbath Day, blithe and bonny, good and gay.
My entry to the world was made in the comfort of my Nan's bed in Sheffield, England, just after Sunday lunch on a sunny July day. July 22 to be exact.
Turns out I was born with my Sun in Cancer, my Moon in Aries and my Rising Sign on the cusp of Libra and Scorpio, which pretty much explains everything..
2. I am fascinated by old things, old places and all that is antique or ancient.
I love too the avant-garde and the revolutionary and like to be on the cutting edge. I am an entirely contradictory creature.
3. I am an ENFP. (And you thought I was just a MINX.)
4. I am claustrophobic and fear any situation where I feel I won't have enough air to breathe. Funnily enough, I developed this phobia vicariously, after locking my little brother in an old suitcase. I was eight and he was six when we decided to explore the world of small spaces. Presumably to impress my friend, the little nipper insisted on folding himself within the musty confines of an old suitcase, which we promptly closed on him. However, when I tried to release him and the ancient latch jammed fast for what seemed forever, I suffered the equivalent of a nuclear meltdown. I imagined him asphixiating on his own little brother poo-breath, a strangled victim of the ancient holdall.
But when he was finally released he laughed, untroubled by his adventure, distressed not by his imminent entombment.
I, on the other hand, never recovered, forever wary of small spaces and hyperventilating at the very thought of being confined.
Deep water illicits the same horror.
5. I fear I am a lush.
I drink too much, I dance, I cavort, I flirt, I kiss, I take my clothes off but now it appears I also speak in tongues.
6. At age 11 I was scared to death of my own pubescence and plucked out each emerging pubic hair as it dared show it's face.
In the same year I drank a third of my Nan's flagon of McWilliam's Cream Sherry while avoiding Mass under the guise of illness. I also set her bathroom bin alight trying to hide one of her cigarettes I had been watching myself smoke.
I was a troubled child...
7. I went to a Catholic girls school for way too long. I was expelled in Year 12.
8. I have been notorious for my splendid temper.A rather feisty creature, I have amongst other things, thrown a knife at my poor husband, kicked over a shop display and smeared sushi all over the windscreen of a car parked too close to me.
My Nan was feisty too. She was brave, bold and ballsy and she had a wicked temper.
While I can see her reading this, shaking her head and saying "blinkin 'eck" in her
best Yorkshire accent, I can also hear her whisper,
"Beautiful, beautiful."
That is because I have included below her favourite man for your listening pleasure, dear reader.
Please play if you enjoy a bit of opera like me.
I caution you to avoid it, however, if you are feeling even the slightest bit fragile.
There may be tears...
(I have had to remove the singing sofa from his comfortable position here as his magnificent voice was proving too emotional for my computer's sensitivities...)
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Reader Comments (30)
Every time I see a new post from you it's like a little present. :)
Lovely, luscious, and lyrical today as well.
My husband sings Opera semi-professionally - He brings the house down with Nessun Dorma. Breathtaking. And it always amazes me to see the effect that it has on older ladies. Their eyes swim, they are 17 and beautiful, and flirt, and seem weightless. Priceless.
Magical stuff opera. So glad you like it.
I love it that you treasure my gifts to you...
Oh, how wonderful that your husband sings opera, Michelle!
It is elevatingly wonderful and transports me in the most delicious way.
Nessun Dorma is bittersweet. I cried three times writing this story and listening to Pavarotti bring my darling Nan a little closer to me.
It is magical indeed.
xx
i treasure the remembrances of my own dear "gramma" more than any other...
she was "born a bitch and died a bitch", as she was only to proud to tell you that she would... but she was indeed the only woman i ever knew,, that could indeed "say 'fuck' with finesse"... i love you gramma.......
thank you for waking me up with fondest memories.....
I am proud, like you Paisley, to have had such a strong and vital woman as my grandmother.
There is infinite power in the Crone, the Dark Mother; the comfort of birth, life, death, and rebirth.
I feel so connected to my Nan and renew myself through her, especially since her death.
For such a proud woman, she was incredibly humble.
I love her most for that.
Here's to our darling grammas!
xx
Thank you for sharing those touching memories of your grandmother, dear Minx. Plucking pubic hairs sounds so painful - I would have given you a lady shaver for your 12th birthday.
I slice off my own pubic hairs using my trusty fencing sword. It takes a great deal of skill, of course. One slip, and I fear I'd soon become a eunuch.
Such a beautiful post minx, really touched my heart very much.
I am tearing at my desk. beautiful post. I can almost feel the music, and the loss myself, since you have so well described. Thank you so much for sharing this precious moment with us.
xxx
meleah rebeccah
Oh Minx, Now you've done it. I have my gramma buried deeply in my heart. There's so much to say about her, I haven't known where to begin.
Thank you for sharing yours so beautifully as you are so apt to do-- and with Puccini's magical aria melting me hopelessly away into memory land bliss.
You are a wonder.
Minx,
This post brought real genuine tears to my eyes. Your Nan sounds like such a lovely, beautiful spirit. The imagery in the phrase "our hands knit together" was absolutely lovely.
Thank you so very much in sharing stories about your Nan. So often those in the older generation are neglected, forgotten, and discarded - much like the darling little man sitting along the side of the street listening to Pavarotti. What a beautiful moment that must have been for you.
I'm inspired to write a post about my grandmother as well. Thank you so much for the idea!
xoxo
What a lovely, lovely post! I feel as if I am right there with you, hearing the breathtaking voice of Pavarotti...feeling the touch of your Nan..sigh...I'm going to have to dig out my cd and give it a listen.
Thank you my darling hairy friend GB,
I admit to finding sport in plucking out the little intruders, picking them off as they showed themselves.
Of course, one cannot hold back the tide and a Lady Shaver would have been a welcome gift..
xx
Lord Likely, my dear, dear man,
I fear that with the distraction of drink and the pertinence of all that porn to put you off, your rampant rapiering may well spell the end to your end.
Leave them be, man!
xx
She was a lovely Yorkshire woman, Jafabrit.
Strong, proud, hardworking and humble.
I love her so very much.
xx
Darling Meleah,
I cried like a baby writing these words about my Nan.
Having Nessun Dorma playing just brought all my memories back with such power that it was overwhelming.
xxx
Thank you Kellypea,
Your writing inspired such a cavalcade of thought and I knew instinctively it was leading to Nan.
I have buried my lovely gramma in my heart where her spirit can touch me every day.
I'm glad she has reached out to you as well...
xx
Darling Kitty,
If my story has helped release the precious memories of all our most beautiful older family members, then I am infinitely happy.
The sight of the lonely, forgotten little man on the bench is a sight that always tugs at my heartstrings. But in his desolation he still had purpose, if only to bring my Nan to me...
There are so many stories aren't there...
My Nan had a tale to tell...
I will help her.
Thank you, Kitty darling,
xoxo
Darling Rapunzel,
I'm so happy you felt her touch.
She was wise and wonderful and her spirit and others like her, lives on through our words and our thoughts.
"thoughts are living things"...
Nan said that often, and how true it is when their memory reaches out and holds our hand.
xx
Dear Domestic Minx,
I am a close friend of Bill Blunt, Paisley and "Harry McFry's" Thomas. I am moving to WordPress and now that I have the capabilities I have linked your site. I hope this meets with your approval. My first site is
http://sleepingkittendancingdog.blogtoolkit.com The new link is:
http://skdd.wordpress.com Perhaps you would consider linking me too. Thank you ever so much. Cheers!
She sounds like an amazing woman...much like her multifaceted and ever surprising granddaughter. The Minx bloodline!
What a lovely tribute.
xox
Mistress M