Life is rather like a tin of sardines

Life is rather like a tin of sardines - we're all of us looking for the key. Alan Bennett

My grandmother’s sister passed away a few days ago. She was 97 years old. She lived a long life, in the company of her family. She watched them grow, graduate, get married and multiply.

Every year in the Festive season we would meet with all the family, over 40 of us, a huge family everyone celebrating the joyous moments. Any person living till that age is rather remarkable, and each generation seems to be stronger than its previous.

However throughout these past years, we’ve been to more funerals than ever before. It’s almost as if all my cousins who were meant to settle down did so, which was a “collect 200 and pass go” to the next life ticket, for most of the older aunts and uncles!

I used to listen intently when my grandmother would tell me the story of how she lived in Alexandria with all her brothers and sisters…..now because of her dementia it’s a case of “how many times have I heard this?”

However I was always fascinated by their fantastic names Melita (in memory of Malta as her parents had left the island), Violet, Egizja (after Egypt obviously) Ginny, Fredu, Frans and my grand mother Adelina.

I also was intrigued by how my great grand father ran a ‘Karozzin’ business back in Alexandria and nanna always tells me about how this Greek girl in her school called Polyxeni (again I just love the name) was fixated with her, my grandma could not understand this…naivety prevailed.

They all came back to Malta when she was 15 years old and the war broke out. Perfect timing isn’t it? Like all other locals they hid for long hours in the shelters, watched their homes being destroyed and rationed their food.

My nanna always relates the story how her late sister Violetta, as they called her, used to eat half her bread ration and put aside the other half just in case she could not control the hunger pangs in the shelter, when the air raids were rife. And how her brother Fredu had found them and consumed them himself. A huge row broke out between them, but all the bread was in his belly so there was very little blue eyed Violetta could do about it!

It’s funny how there are so many little trivial stories that we remember in our lives. Some of them help us remember those we’ve lost, in the most memorable ways ever. Chances are I’m going to hear one of the above stories a few other times till my grandma still has the strength to relate them. It’s her way of remembering her beautiful family I guess and one day I know they’ll all be reunited.