‘Mum, how old do you want to be when you die?’

Death has been on our minds recently, after my 90-year-old Grandma, Jean Godbee (affectionately known as GiGi to the kids), passed away on the 11th of May.

We were knee-deep in boxes, getting ready to move house. With the big day drawing closer we were somewhat wary of the border being locked down, making it impossible for us to get back in time. So in the end it was just Harvey and I who packed our things, booked flights and made our way to Ballina.

Grandma moved up to the north coast of New South Wales to live with my Aunty and her family five years after Grandpa died. She settled in a cosy bungalow with her beloved dog, Coco, and made a new life there, adjusting to life outside of the rural town of Tumbarumba in which she had grown up.

My memories of her stretch back to the farm – the rattle of the car as we would finally pass over the cattle grid and up the long driveway near the farmhouse. I remember the kitchen filled with homemade relish, with jams and preserves, with fermenting ginger beer. The floor would creak and move and the call of the birds woke us early every morning. Grandma loved us with a brisk air of no nonsense, letting us join in the daily chores of farm life. I remember feeding the horses with crisp red apples and scattering scraps for the chickens (while desperately hoping none would peck me). We came along on her errands in town, played on the school equipment as she taught R.E. to the students, visited local parades featuring Grandpa in his bagpipe band, and took long walks to the billabong (while keeping a petrified eye out for sun-bathing snakes).

When she and Grandpa moved closer to town, we acquainted ourselves with the creek at the bottom of their new property, catching yabbies and building cubbies. We wandered among the long rows of Grandpa’s fruit and vegetable gardens and made up dramatic plays for the adults’ entertainment. We binge-watched Riverdance and Andy Hardy, and consumed vast quantities of home-dehydrated fruit leather.

Grandma – or Jean (as she was known to her friends) – was a talented, capable and independent woman, who cultivated her hobbies (golf, writing, tennis) and was very involved in the community. After her death, a Facebook post written by my Uncle triggered an outpouring of nostalgia from her hometown, with many speaking about how much she had helped them, and how kind and generous she was. When she moved to Newrybar, Grandma made a great impact upon the people there, as she consistently volunteered her time at both the op shop and at the church’s food bank.

In our phone calls she was kind and encouraging, speaking often about how proud she was of me and talking about how much she was moved by my writing. I credit her tapping away on the typewriter, and later on, the chunky old computer, with a subconscious part of the inspiration that I too, could put my hand to writing.

When Grandma lost most of her sight, she continued to live without complaint, switching to audio books and remaining positive and upbeat. In fact, there were many times I forgot she couldn’t see, as she never let it stop her from interacting with others. With her failing body, we knew that she was keen to ‘go home’ and be with Grandpa, but she continued to make the most of her life here.

The last week of her life was drawn out, but peaceful, as she slowly slipped away, day by day. My mum was able to fly up in time to be with her during those last few days, and she and my Aunty Louise were there for the moment when she finally passed into heaven.

For as long as I can remember, the house nestled in the rolling hills of Newrybar has been an idyllic escape. A place where time drips instead of flows, an area where stunning views stretch out in all directions. Plants flourish and fervently fruit, the distant and muted roar of the ocean follows you wherever you go, and the air hums with life. Returning there always reconnects me with a piece of myself that lies dormant – the part of me that is content to go with the flow, unaware of the clock or the pressures of schedule.

Returning to be with family is a salve. We share food together, page through old photo albums. There are tears and laughter, hugs and debates. It is as if the last time we saw each other was mere weeks ago, rather than the two years it has actually been. I read through pages of Grandma’s typewritten stories, getting a glimpse into another world – one where grocery trips are taken in a sulky attached to Old Jim and ice-cream costs threepenny, where bats have to be chased out of the old farm house with tennis raquets and golf days go ahead (for some) even when it is snowing. I take trips with my cousins to explore the local op shops and homewares stores, and Harvey gets along uproariously with his newfound playmates (my cousins’ kids) while I’m gone.

The morning of the funeral dawns with a relentless drizzle, and the procession of cars wind past the Big Prawn to the service. There are somber murmurings and the sound of sniffing, with muted exclamations at seeing cousins and faintly familiar faces in the crowd. It is strange to think that without Grandma, this extended clan simply wouldn’t exist. There are four children, twelve grandchildren and ten great-grandchildren (including one on the way).

When all is said and done, and the exploits of one’s life are dusted off for examination, it turns out that what matters is relationships. Those moments that are invested behind closed doors, the conversations that continue into the night. It is the selfless service of showing up, the advice given when sought. Life is found in the following of one’s passions, in living a rich life in service of others. The simple act of being and connecting ends up becoming the most holy element of all.

Grandma didn’t have much in the way of material possessions at the end of her life. A lifetime of existing on this planet is whittled down to the bare necessities and a nostalgic collection of jewellery, tea sets and foraged precious stones. I survey the antique array and choose a slender silver and gold ring and some amber earrings that will remind me of her.

I find myself unable to answer the question that Ivy asks me about death, but I do know that I want, above all, to live a full life. I want to cultivate meaningful relationships, take care of my body and invest into my family. Death comes for each one of us eventually, and we cannot know the hour or the day. I want to be able to be a part of the lives of my children and their children. I want to teach my grandchildren how to bake and call out the spark within each one that makes them uniquely them. I want to speak truth, even when it goes against the accepted thinking of the day.

Death and life are intricately connected. What we think of the first influences the way we construct the second. I am not afraid to die when my moment comes, but far more importantly, I pray every day that I will not be afraid to truly live.