TOLD BY US

It's short and it's sweet. But in many ways, it says everything you need to know about my Grandad. His wife, my Nana, has dementia. He is the only person in her life that she still remembers. I'll give you a story.

In 1939, when my Grandad, John Sydney Giles, was just eight years old (soon to be nine), he went with his family to visit a family friend in the hospital who had just given birth. They went into the rooms, a little baby in her cot. John went over, a nervous little boy, and looked at the little baby. The mother lying in bed offers to let him hold her, and he does. Her name was Gwen Joy Hart. Time went on, John and Gwen went their separate ways, lived their lives, grew up. Gwen's family started going to church in Collaroy Plateau, spent many years there. Then one random Sunday in the 1950s John walked in. He was a junior pastor at the time, randomly selected to go to this church. It wasn't obvious at first the crazy coincidence that would come to be, but through conversations over the weeks, their origin story unravelled. She was the baby in the cot; he was the boy that held her. Gwen would go off to college to study teaching, but they kept in contact, writing letters back and forth. Over this time feelings grew and in 1961 they married, and she became Gwen Joy Giles.

That's the story I grew up being told, that my Grandad held my Nana when she was first born, and 87 years later, he is still holding her.

My Grandad is now 95, soon to be 96, and my Nana is newly 87. He has loved her, under all circumstances and every situation, that much is very clear. If I had the chance to ask him this question a couple of years ago, I think we would have a much more in-depth answer. He was a pastor, a man of words, of hymns and of poetry. But in the years since my Nana's decline, he's not had the headspace for anything but the next day.

His love is taking her on drives to look at the houses he knows she loves. His love is putting her care before his own, accepting that life can't look how it once did. His love is writing everything down, keeping their life story alive. His love has been ever present, in the way he knows how.

In many ways, though he doesn't have the words to describe unconditional love, he doesn't need to, because he is embodying it, day in and day out. He loves her by showing up every day, knowing that it might be the day she no longer remembers his name. But he is still that boy in the hospital, holding on tight, just as he has always done and will continue to do.

My father has always been a man of few words. He has never been the man to stand up at a birthday party and give a thank you speech. He says I love you and you know he means it. My mother was the talker; my dad was the doer. That's the way it has always been. So, it is not surprising that when asked a question about love he responds with a simple answer. But in many ways, it's not a simple answer. He is someone that shows he cares by action.

Someone cooked dinner? He's the first in the kitchen to clean. Going on a road trip? He's packed the car with such precision I'm surprised it all fit. Side gate broken? He's learnt how to fix it. Dog's barking and driving mum up the wall? Dad's out the door with the dog in tow.

All this to say, he will do everything and anything for someone he loves. And you know he loves you, because trust me, he's not getting up at 5am in the morning to drive someone to the airport if he doesn't.

Growing up I was someone that clung on to every word someone said about me. I sought validation in the “I'm proud of you” or the “you look pretty”. I am a person of words. My father is a person of action. It took some growing up, reflection, life for me to recognise how much love my father gave me without ever needing to explicitly say it.

When my mum was going through cancer treatment, I was only 7, too young to understand, but my dad was there in ways that meant I never felt the absence. He would do my sister and I's hair every morning before school. He would help us get dressed. Made us breakfast. Packed our lunches. He was a father.

And it's a kind of love that unfortunately doesn't get the recognition it deserves till someone is blessed with the gift of foresight.

And so, as I've grown to realise words don't capture the essence of someone's true feelings, I've grown to realise that my father truly does love with no conditions attached. When I was freshly 20, I was in Sydney visiting a friend, 1.5hrs away from home. Just as I was leaving, my car stalled. I did what every young girl does when she has car troubles, I called my dad. Of course, he answers straight away.

“What lights are showing on the dashboard?” “Is there enough coolant?”

My panic rises, he simply instructs me to call NRMA and he'll be there. And that's what he did. He was on a break in between shifts, drove an hour and a half to come and get me. I was crying because I hate car issues, and he was the calm I've always known. The tow truck came, I jumped in my dad's car, and we drove an hour and a half back home, just in time for him to start work again. And it was in that moment I realised, my inability to see his love, never stopped his love. In that moment, and every moment before and since, there has never been a condition for him to show up, he just does.

There once was a bird and she was free. She had hints of red in her feathers, a wild streak. When she was old enough, she flew her family's nest, ready to see what the world had to offer. So, she flew. She flew to the ocean, rejoicing in the sea mist sprinkled in her feathers. But, after a frightful night she decided the beach was no place for a bird. And so, she flew.

She flew all day and all night, noticing the other birds' nests; some made of sticks, some made of straw, but none of them made her want to stop. She flew all the way down the coastline until she reached the central hub for all birds, also known as Bird City. She was enamoured by the different lives of the birds, even made some friends. But still, she never stopped flying; all the other birds admired her stamina. She must be one busy bird, they would whisper under their breath.

Every evening, as the other birds went home to sleep, this little bird would keep on flying. She longingly looked at the warm glow emanating from the homes, the tucked-up wings, the comfort of sleeping with someone to watch over you. She pushed down the envy, only stopping briefly for some water. But one of the risks of coming down to the forest floor, was the evening noises. The owls. The insects. A grunt from an animal she never dared to get too close to see what it was. After all, she was just a young bird, not enough life lived to know how to protect herself. Unknowingly exhausted, she pushed on, flying all night.

The hues of yellow and pink decorated the sky. It was these kinds of mornings that made flying all night worth it. And so, the cycle repeated, flying from friends' home to friends' home, until the sun once again set. But this night was about to be different than other nights. Her last friend, a blue bird from the country asked do you have a home? The question stopped her in her tracks. No one had asked her before. Would you like to stay here for a while? He asked. A yawn escaped her as she looked around his home.

It was soft and gentle, not made of sticks or straw, but of plush moss and tufts of fur. She went to flap her wings but couldn't lift them.

There was an alluring softness beneath her feet, as if the moss was a soft voice calling her to rest. The noises from the outside world quietened for the first time, there was no humming of an insect, no growl, just a lull. The blue bird smiled at her, it was a smile of pure understanding, one she only just noticed before her eyelids drooped. She tucked her wings up, finally feeling just how weak they were. She didn't want to fall asleep; she wanted to keep talking with her friend, but there was something inexplicable about the comfort she finally felt. Her eyes no longer burnt with harsh winds blowing in her face. Her feathers were dry. She was safe here, and her body knew it well before she had time to understand it.