Grandma’s funeral

I could never go up into the woods above congleton park. The paths through it are steep and cut through with steps. My chair could never get up there; yet I was always told that those woods were filled with bluebells, and my grandma always called them the bluebell woods. She often said how beautiful they were, before giving a whistle.

The paths through maryon Wilson park are wide and smooth. I often take them these days on my way home from school or charlton park. Going through the wooded London park last night, many miles from my old family home and thinking about my grandma, I suddenly came across a beautiful clearing carpeted with bluebells. And, in my mind, I heard grandma whistle.

It was grandma’s funeral today, held at the small Sussex village where she grew up and spent most of her life. All my family was there, and it was truly great to see them. If the occasion hadn’t been so sad it would have been a lovely day. Sat there in the same church where my great grandma was buried, I thought about the bluebells in both parks. I have many happy memories of my grandma and will certainly miss her- we all will.

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