Patrick Jemmer- Spectres

Patrick Jemmer: Rhithiau / Spectres

Yn Ffurfiol/Patrick Jemmer

Beth yw natur ysbryd? A ydy’n bosibl bod lleoedd yn meddu ar bersonoliaethau, neu ynteu fod eneidiau pobl sy wedi diosg y corff priddlyd yn gallu trigo mewn cysgodion ystafell eto, yn llechu y tu ôl i’r celfi llwydaidd, wedi’u gludio dan bapur wal braenllyd? Credaf mai felly y mae gan fy mod wedi cael profiad ohoni yn fy mywyd fy hun. Rwy’n byw mewn byd llawn cofion sy’n symud a siarad o hyd. Llais a llygaid sy biau’r golau a’r tywyll fel ei gilydd yn y fangre hon, er iddi gael ei thacluso amser maith yn ôl. A ble bynnag y crwydraf yn ystod taith byw, yno y cwrddaf drwy’r amser â’m hen fam-gu, oherwydd i Rufain yr arwain pob ffordd, fel y dywedai hi. Ond, a yw rhithiau’r gorffennol wastad yn dywedyd y gwir?

What is the nature of a ghost? Is it possible that places can possess personalities, or that the souls of people who have divested themselves of their earthly bodies can dwell still in a room’s shadows, lurking behind the dismal furniture, hidden under decaying wall-paper? I believe that this is so, as I have had experience of it in my own life. I live in a world full of memories which move and speak still. Voice and eyes own both the light and the darkness alike in this place, although it was tidied up a long time ago. And wherever I wander on life’s journey, there I’ll always meet with my great-grandma, since all roads lead to Rome, as she would say. But, do the spectres of the past always tell the truth?

Wrth imi sefyll yn stond yng nghanol yr ystafell newydd ei haddurno a arferai fod yn graidd fy modolaeth, fe’m cludir yn ôl drwy amser i fro fy mebyd. Canol y saithdegau ydy, felly, unwaith eto, a dyma fi ymhlith fy milltir sgwâr, lle mae’r llenni llawn gwyfynod, lled agored, yn dal yr awyr sy’n ddrwm â gwynt yr hen di dall. Yma, hefyd, dal i fyw y mae hen wraig, fechan, sybachog, gloff gan gymalwst, nad yw’n gallu ymadael yr un sedd ers mwy na deng mlynedd erbyn hyn. Ac yma mae hi’n eistedd, a disgwyl, yn chwithig ond heb gŵyn – am beth? – rhwng pedwar mur, ymhlith y gweoedd pryfed cop sy'n garlantu pob twll a chornel.As I stand stock-still in the middle of the newly done-out room which used to be the centre of my world, I am transported back through time to my childhood haunts. So, once again, it’s the middle of the seventies, and here I am in the midst of my little patch, where the half-open, moth-eaten curtains hold in the air which is heavy with the smell of the old, blind dog. Here, too, there continues to live an old woman, tiny, wizened, crippled with arthritis, who’s not been able to leave the same seat for more than ten years by now. And here she sits, and waits, awkwardly but without complaint – for what? – within four walls, amongst the spiders’ webs which bedeck every nook and cranny.
Ai hanner byw ynteu hanner marw ydy; dewines garedig yn cynllunio direidi, neu grances feudwyol yn gwisgo amdani ei chragen dro wedi’i dwyn? Tua phump oed ydw i ac mae Dafros a’r Dalecs newydd ymddangos ar y teledu du a gwyn sy’n fflachio’n ddi-baid gan gyfeilio ei gwingo. (Ac ie, cyn ichi ofyn, Cymro oedd Terry Nation a’u creodd nhw!). P’un rydw i’n ei ofni fwyaf, wrth ei garu ar unwaith: y wrach go iawn neu’r dihiryn mewn ffuglen? Er nad oeddwn yn sylweddoli ar y ffaith ar y pryd, fe fyddwn i’n dioddef yn llym o ganlyniad i’r trosedd meddwl hwn rhyw dair blynedd yn hwyrach, ni waeth beth am fy niniweidrwydd plentynnaidd.Is it half alive or half dead that she is; a kindly sorceress planning mischief, or a hermit-crab wearing her temporary, stolen shell? I am about five years old, and Davros and the Daleks have just appeared on the black-and-white telly which flashes ceaselessly, accompanying her fidgeting. (And yes, before you ask, Terry Nation who created them, was a Welsman!). Which one do I fear more, whilst loving it at the same time: the real witch or the fictitious villain? Although I didn’t realise the fact at the time, I would suffer terribly for this thought-crime some three years later, never mind my childish innocence.
Gallai hi fod wedi bod yn Gymraes lân loyw, gyda het gopa dal, betgwn, pais, siôl, a ffedog. Ond o Sir Gaerhirfryn roedd hi wedi ffoi i Abertawe’n lodes, ac yn wir, siaradai hi wastad â llediaith drom ar ei Saesneg drwy gydol ei hoes hir. Ni fedrai hi un gair o’r Gymraeg hyd y gwn i, er mai menyw wedi’i gwaddoli â thalentau cuddiedig ydoedd. Pan oedd hi yn yr ysgol roedd rhaid i’r merched ddewis rhwng mathemateg a’r clasuron, ac achos nad oedd hi erioed wedi mwynhau helpu ei Mam i wneud cyfrifon i siop gornel y teulu, astudiodd hi bopeth am fywyd a diwylliant yn Rhufain gynt a Groeg yr henfyd. Hyd yn oed yn bedwar ugain oed y gallai llefaru mewn Lladin fel petai hi’n areithydd yn annerch y senedd. A phan gyrhaeddodd yr amser imi siantio rhedeg y berfau – “amo, amas, amat, amamus, amatis, amant” – “caraf, ceri, câr, carwn, cerwch, carant” a ddysgai imi mewn iaith y Fwlgat, fel rhyw weddi lesmeiriol i Dduw cariad.She could have been a true Welsh-woman, with chimney-pot hat, bodice, petticoat, shawl, and apron. But from Lancashire she’d fled to Swansea as a lass, and indeed, she always spoke with a heavy accent on her English throughout her long life. She couldn’t speak one word of Welsh as far as I knew, although she was a woman endowed with hidden talents. When she was in school the girls had to choose between mathematics and the classics, and since she had never enjoyed helping her Mum to do the accounts in the family’s corner shop, she studied everything about life and culture in Ancient Rome and Greece. Even at eighty years of age she could recite in Latin as if she were an orator addressing the senate. And when the time arrived for me to chant verb conjugations – “amo, amas, amat, amamus, amatis, amant” -- “I love; you love; he, she or it loves; we love; you all love; they love” she taught me in the language of the Vulgate, like some hypnotic prayer to the God of love.
Unwaith, roedd rhaid imi ddatgladdu cist fôr a berthynasai i’w gŵr diweddar, o’r cwpwrdd dychrynllyd o bydredig o dan y staer. Ac ar ôl tynnu allwedd ar gadwyn arian oddi rhwng ei bronnau hynafol, er mwyn agor ystordy’i chofion, fe ddangosai hi imi lyfrau ymarferion llawn caligraffeg hardd yn yr iaith Roeg, o’i dyddiau ysgol. Fe fyddai hi wedi cynrychioli sampl o’r llawysgrifen rugl yn y fan a’r lle, oni bai am ei dwylo mor ddrylliedig. Dal ati, meddai hi; cofia, nid mewn undydd y codwyd Rhufain. Ond ar yr un pryd, dyna oedd Pandora’n rhyddhau galar o’i gaethiwed hir o’m hachos i, gan mai yn y blwch oedd ei chyfrinachau hefyd.Once, I had to excavate a seaman’s chest which had belonged to her late husband, from the frighteningly rotten cupboard under the stairs. And after taking the key on a silver chain from between her ancient breasts, in order to open the storehouse of her memories, she showed me exercise books full of beautiful calligraphy in the Greek language, from her schooldays. She would have produced an example of the flowing handwriting there and then, if only her hands were not so damaged. Stick at it, she said, remember, Rome wasn’t built in a day. But at the same time, there was Pandora releasing grief from its long captivity on my account, because in the box were her secrets also.
Nid cyndyn o ildio ei chynnwys oedd e, ychwaith, ac yn sydyn y daeth rhyw wynt brathog o rywle heb ei ddisgwyl yn rhuthro drwy’r lle. Yn ei safnau y dygai luniau o’i phlentyndod, ei chariad, ei phriodas, ei cholled. Synnwn i wrth syllu’n llygadog ar y delweddau sepia, wedi’u llyfrïo ar yr ymylon. Dyma oedd tywysoges ledrithiol o chwedl dylwyth teg, an fêl les, gywrain, ar fin briodi, a swynol o dlws oedd hi'n wir. A dyna oedd croten a’i hwyneb llawn brychau haul, wedi’i gwisgo’n Indiad Coch (Amerindiad brodorol fel y dywedem heddiw!) â phenwisg o blu ar ei phen a chadfwyall yn ei llaw.It was not reluctant to yield its contents, either, and suddenly there came a certain biting wind from somewhere unexpected, rushing through the place. In its jaws it carried pictures of her childhood, her love, her wedding, her loss. I was astounded while staring goggle-eyed at the sepia images, tattered at the edges. Here was an enchanted princess from a fairy-tale, under a fine, lace veil, about to marry, and bewitchingly beautiful she was she for sure. And there was a little girl, her face full of freckles, dressed as a Red Indian (an indigenous Amerindian as we would say today!) with a feather head-dress on her head and a tomahawk in her hand.
Sut y medrai’r cymeriadau cryf, a heini, a phrydferth hyn fod yr un person â’r llanastr corfforol yn gaeth i’r gadair orthopedig? Gallai’r llances fod wedi dod yn feddyg, yn ôl ei merch hi, fy mam-gu; dylai hi fod wedi bod yn far-gyfreithiwr yn ôl ei hwyres hi, fy mam. Ond nid rhan o eirfa’r hen goes oedd termau fel “gallai, dylai, byddai.” Nid un a ufuddhâi i neb fu hi erioed. Ond dacw, ar waelod y coffr, mewn ffrâm bictiwr aur, oedd eicon y dyn y ffurfiai hi ei bywyd ar ei ddelw e, hynny yw fy hen dad-cu’n llanc, a’i drwyn crwm a’i dalcen uchel, a’i lygaid digywilydd, treiddgar, nad oeddwn i wedi adnabod erioed.How could these strong, and healthy, and beautiful characters be the same person as the physical wreck, stuck in the orthopaedic chair? The young woman could have become a doctor, according to her daughter, my grand-ma; she should have been a barrister according to her grand-daughter, my mum. But terms like “could of, should of, would of” weren’t part of the old stick’s vocabulary. She was never one to answer to anybody. But there, at the bottom of the chest, in a golden picture frame, was an icon of the man in whose image she fashioned her life, that is my great-granddad as a lad, with his hooked nose and his high forehead, and his cheeky, penetrating eyes, whom I had never known.
Ar ei gyfer y gadawsai hi ei chartref a’i rhieni, a rhedeg ymaith i Gymru, y wlad anghysbell honno, er mwyn sefydlu gwestfa i gloddwyr a gweithwyr yn y dociau. Pam, ni wn i byth. A maes o law y cafodd hi fabi, a gweithiai hyd at yr asgwrn, ac yn y pendraw bu e farw cyn pryd, gan adael iddi ymdopi, a dolurio’n ddistaw. A dyna a wnaeth hi, wrth sgwrio a golchi a choginio hyd nes y’i handwywyd. Ond er hynny, llawn asbri a llonder ydoedd bob adeg, ac yn enwedig pan fyddai’n rhoi gofal mawr i bobl eraill.For his sake she had left her home and her parents, and had run away to Wales, that far-flung land, in order to set up a guest-house for navvies and dock-workers. Why, I’ll never know. And in due course she had a baby, and worked herself to the bone, and in the end he died before his time, leaving her to cope and mourn silently. And that’s what she did, whilst scrubbing and washing and cooking until she was done in. But despite that she was always full of zest and joy, and especially when she was giving great care to other people.
Mae gennyf ffotograffau hyd yn oed heddiw, ac ynddynt y mae hi’n fy nal i’n faban newydd-anedig, dan wenu’n wynfydedig (hithau nid fi). Chwech oed oeddwn i pan afaelais yn dynn ynddi hi, wrth iddi lefain y glaw, a’i chorff wedi’i meddiannu gan wewyr o gofio. Ond tra wylai hi nes bron â thorri ei chalon, daliai i’m cysuro gan ddweud mai dagrau o lawenydd oedd y rhain, a chyda hynny, tynnwyd lleithder i’m llygaid hefyd. Ni ddeallwn bryd hynny o ble y daeth y teimladau hollysol: dim ond crwt diniwed oeddwn. Ond trwy ei hymddygiad, a’i geiriau, a’r amser a roddai hi imi dan chwerthin a chael hwyl fel geneth ysgol, er gwaethaf ei phoen i gyd, hyhi oedd y person cyntaf i hau hadau tosturi yn fy nghalon.I have photographs even today, and in them she’s holding me as a newly-born baby, smiling beatifically (she, not I). I was six years old when I grabbed her tightly, as she sobbed uncontrollably, her body wracked by pangs of remembering. But while she was crying until her heart almost broke, she still reassured me saying that they were tears of joy, and with that, a moistness was drawn from my eyes too. I did not understand at that time where the all-consuming feelings came from: I was only an innocent child. But through her behaviour, and her words, and the time she gave me, laughing and having fun like a school-girl, despite all her pain, she was the first person to sow the seeds of compassion in my heart.
Yn hwyrach, pa bryd bynnag y bo hi ar ei phen ei hun yn ei siambr, llafarganu litanïau Lladin i’r Forwyn ac i’r Seintiau a wnâi’n gyson mewn hanner sibrwd, wrth siglo yn ôl ac ymlaen yn y gadair cymaint ag y byddai ei chorffolaeth analluog adael iddi ei wneud. Ni chysgai hi byth, mae’n ymddangos, fel y gweddai i forwyn briodas a ddisgwyliai gyrraedd y priodfab, a ddeuai pwy a ŵyr pryd, fel lleidr yn y nos.Later on, whenever she was alone in her room, she would constantly intone Latin litanies to the Virgin and the Saints in a half-whisper, whilst rocking back and forth in the chair as much as her disabled form would allow her to do. She would never sleep, apparently, as befitted a bridesmaid who was awaiting the bridegroom’s arrival, and who knows when he would come, like a thief in the night.
Wedi’r cwbl, aelod balch ond gostyngedig o’r Eglwys Rufain ydoedd, a fynychai’r uchel offeren bob bore Sul a genid trwy gyfrwng yr ‘hen iaith’ nes i newidiadau uffernol Ail Gyngor y Fatican ddistrywio’r ddewiniaeth. Ond erbyn hyn roedd hi’n gofyn iddi ei hunan ai canu crwth tra llosgo Rhufain ydoedd, ta beth. Sut bynnag, yn sgil ei ffydd hi, Catholigion oedd Mam-gu a Mam a finnau hefyd.After all, she was a proud but humble member of the Roman Church, who attended the high mass every Sunday morning, which was offered in the ‘old tongue’ until the hellish changes of the Second Vatican Council destroyed the magic. But by then she was asking herself whether she was fiddling while Rome burned, anyway. However, due to her faith, Grandma, Mum, and myself were Catholics too.
Wel, un peth yw defodau’r fam eglwys lân, ond dyna heb sôn am yr hen chwedlau o’r Beibl sydd yn beth arall yn llwyr. Y rhai o’r Hen Destament oedd y gorau, wrth gwrs. Hyhi a arferai ddwli ar eu hadrodd nhw’n rhwydd braf gan ei morio hi yn y fath fodd fel y byddai agos iddi dorri gwythïen. Pe gallai hi fod wedi symud o’i chadair, fe fyddai wedi brasgamu o hyd yr ystafell gan draethu’i llinellau fel actores fyd-enwog. Y diafol sy’n cael yr alawon gorau i gyd ebe hwy, ond afraid dweud mai heb fod yn yr un cae â neb arall oedd yr hen gyfarwydd, ac felly hyhi a gâi’r rhannau mwyaf, a’r holl linellau pwysicaf ymhellach.Well, the rituals of the holy mother-church are one thing, but that’s not to mention the old tales from the Bible which are a different thing entirely. The ones from the Old Testament were the best, of course. She used to love telling them in full flood, getting carried away in such a way that she would almost bust a blood-vessel. If she could have moved from her chair, she would have stridden about the room reciting her lines like a world-famous actress. The devil has all the best tunes, they say, but needless to say that the old raconteur was in a league of her own, and so it’s her who got the biggest parts, and all the most important lines on top of that.
‘Rarglwydd, fe actiai hi fel Efa’n mynd ati fel yr Andros i ladd nadredd siaradus, coeglyd yng Ngardd Eden! Fi chwaraeai fân rannau wrth iddi wae gwe lledrith. Pan foch yn Rhufain, gwnewch fel y Rhufeiniaid, ac felly ymlaen. A ydwyf wedi esbonio ei bod hi’n ddynwaredwraig ardderchog? Felly y consuriai leisiau sêr yr ysgrîn arian tu mewn i’r llecyn hwnnw oedd wedi mynd â’i ben iddo. Ac O, fe wleddwn â’m clustiau ar yr holl ladd, a charu, a phoethoffrymu, a’r angylion â’u cleddyfau tanllyd yn ymgodymu, a’r perthi’n llosgi heb eu difa.Good Lord, she used to act like Eve going to it hell for leather to kill chatty, snide snakes in the Garden of Eden! I would play bit-parts whilst she would weave a web of magic. When in Rome, do as the Romans do, and so on. Have I explained that she was an excellent mimic? So she would conjure the voices of the stars of the silver screen, within that place that had gone to pot. And oh, I feasted with my ears on all the slaying, and love-making, and burnt-offering, and the angels with their flaming swords wrestling, and the bushes burning without being consumed.
Duw a siaradai yno â thonau dyfnion Charlton Heston, oddi mewn i dabernacl dychmygol dan bentwr o lyfrau â llwydni drostynt. Ac yno Delilah gegog reibiai Samson blysig, gyda chymorth Dagon, mewn dyffryn ger nant a redai dan y ford oedd yn llwythog gan lestri brwnt. Ni waeth am yr olwg chwareus ar wyneb f’eirinen sych wedi’i wystno, oedd â chalon aur, fe allai hi regi fel tincer a sgaldiwyd, petasai angen, a hynny a wnâi ‘n ddiamau pan fynnai awen y ddrama.God would speak there in Charlton Heston’s deep tones, from within an imaginary tabernacle beneath a pile of dust-covered books. And there a mouthy Delilah would enchant a randy Samson, with the help of Dagon, in a valley near a stream which ran under the table loaded with dirty dishes. Never mind about the playful look on the face of my wrinkled prune, who had a heart of gold, she could swear like a scalded tinker if there were need, and that she most certainly would do when the Muse of the drama insisted.
Beth yn union a ddigwyddodd y diwrnod hwnnw pan oeddwn yn wyth oed, ni wn i byth. Nid oedd a wnelo Evita, na’r Rhwygwr o Swydd Efrog, na Gŵyl Fai, na ffrwythloni mewn profdiwbiau â hi, siŵr o fod, ond eto i gyd, ‘does wybod yn y byd, ond oes? Y noson o’r blaen, yn rhy hwyr i fachgen megis innau gadw ar effro eto, tua hanner nos, aethwn i lawr staer i ddweud nos da a chwtsio lan ati hi fel arfer cyn mynd yn ôl i’r gwely.What exactly happened that day when I was eight years old, I’ll never know. Neither Evita, nor the Yorkshire Ripper, nor May-day, nor artificial insemination, had anything to do with it, probably, but then again, you never know, do you? The night before, too late for a boy like myself still to be awake, about midnight, I had gone downstairs to stay goodnight and snuggle up to her as usual.
Y bore nesaf cefais i’r brecwast arferol o uwd cyfoglyd ac olew afu penfras lan staer gyda Mam. Y nefoedd wen, llawn syniadau rhyfedd fu fy nheulu i, felly wedyn y sefais i’n noeth borcyn mewn drafers a fest dyllau wrth wisgo dim byd ond sbectol haul o flaen y lamp uwchfioled oedd i fod i warchod rhag y llechau. Ac wedyn, bant â fi i’r ysgol wedi cyflym ganu'n iach i’m hen fam-gu annwyl.The next morning I had the usual breakfast of sickly porridge and col-liver oil upstairs with Mum. Good heavens, my family was full of strange ideas, so then I stood stark-naked in pants and string vest wearing nothing but sunglasses in front of the ultraviolet lamp that was supposed to ward off rickets. And then, off I went to school having said a quick good-bye to my beloved great-grandma.
Dyna oedd y tro olaf imi ei gweld hi’n fyw. Efallai bod y gofid wedi mynd yn drech na hi. Hwyrach ei bod hi wedi blino’n llwyr ym mhen yr hir a'r hwyr. O bosib y galwasai ei chariad colledig arni o'r tu hwnt i'r llen. Pan lwyddodd y nyrs a ddeuai unwaith yr wythnos i newid y rhwymynnau ar ei briwiau i fynd i mewn i’r fflat lawr staer o’r diwedd, nid oedd dim mwmial i’w glywed. Nid oedd dim sŵn o gwbl. Roedd hyd yn oed y teledu wedi’i ddiffodd, rywsut. Ac yno yr eisteddai’r hen wraig yn tawel gysgu, fel petai wedi pigo ei bys ar rod nyddu hudol.That was the last time I saw her alive. Perhaps the affliction had become too much for her. Maybe she had become completely exhausted, at long last. Possibly, her lost love had called to her from the other side. When the nurse who came one a week to change the bandages on her sores succeeded to get into the downstairs flat in the end, there was no mumbling to be heard. There was no sound at all. Even the television had been switched off, somehow. And there sat the old lady, sleeping quietly, as if she had pricked her finger on an enchanted spinning-wheel.
Dyna beth a ddywedant wrthyf y prynhawn tynghedus hwnnw yn yr ysgol, ta beth. Ac yna yr aeth fy ngwaed i rewi, heb os nac oni bai. Maddeuwch imi, Dad, am fy mod i wedi pechu, roedd angen arnaf lefain, gan obeithio y cawn hyd i gymorth o ryw fath, neu’n hytrach gollyngdod (mor llawn euogrwydd oeddwn ar ryw reswm sy’n neilltuol i Gatholigion), ond dim ateb a wnaeth i’m gweddi fygedig. Eithr ar ôl i’r afon o ddagrau ddod i ben, fe fyddaf yn cofio byth a beunydd y wên grychlyd, y llygaid glas yr awyr yn pefrio gan lawenydd dan y gwallt gwyn crych, er y gwynegon oedd yn ei chnoi.That’s what they told me that fateful afternoon in the school, anyway. And then my blood froze, and no word of a lie about it. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned, I wanted to cry out, hoping I could find help of some sort, or rather absolution (so guilty was I for some reason that’s particular to Catholics), but no answer came to my stifled prayer. But after the river of tears came to an end, I shall remember forevermore the crinkly smile, the sky-blue eyes, sparkling with joy under the curly white hair, despite the pains that were gnawing her.
Morwyn, mam, gwrach oedd fy hen fam-gu yn ei hamser ei hun, ac mae hi wedi goroesi yn y lle hwn oblegid mai duwies ydy’n wir, ryw ffordd, imi o leiaf. Petai eneidiau’n bodoli, hyhi a fyddai’n berchen ar f’un i, er nad yw’n gallu honni fy mod i wedi cael hyd i iachawdwriaeth drwyddi. I’r gwrthwyneb, rwy wedi treulio’r rhan fwyaf o’m bywyd yn ceisio cael gwared â llawer o’i syniadau egsotig. (Nid oes raid sefyll o flaen lamp swynol mwyach, er nad fampir mohonof gan fy mod yn gerub corffog, moel, a’i stumog yn llawn o rawnfwyd a fitaminau atodol bellach). Ond, serch hynny, tuag ati hi rwy’n troi yn yr eiliadau mwyaf tywyll; iddi hi y codaf fy llais gan erfyn.Maiden, mother, crone, was my great-grandma in her own time, and she has survived in this place because she is truly a goddess, after a fashion, to me at least. If souls were to exist, she would possess mine, although I cannot claim I have found salvation through her. To the contrary, I have spent the majority of my life trying to rid myself of many of her exotic ideas. (No need to stand in front of an untra-violet lamp any more, although I’m not a vampire, ‘cos I’m a bald, portly cherub with a tummy full of breakfast cereal and vitamin supplements by now). But despite that, towards her I turn in the darkest moments, to her I lift up my voice in supplication.
Gyda’n gilydd fe chwarddwn ni, myfi sy biau llais uchel, a hyhi sydd heb eiriau ond y rhai yn fy meddwl i. Fe wylwn, y naill gyda’r llall, wrth iddi hi gydio yn fy nghorff byrdew â’i breichiau mor anfaterol â tharth. Fy nghof diysgog ohoni fydd y cusan gludiog ar fy moch, ei sylw dwl am yr eurgylch wedi’i achosi gan yr uwd, y jôc y nofiwn i fel pysgod o achos yr olew afu penfras (ach-a-fi!), a’r addewid y’m gwelai pan ddown i adref.Together we laugh, I who have a loud voice, and she who lacks words but the ones in my mind. We cry, one with the other, as she holds my stocky body with her arms that are as insubstantial as mist. My unshakeable memory of her will be the clammy kiss on my cheek, her silly comment about the halo caused by the porridge, the joke that I would swim like a fish because of the cod-liver oil, and the promise that she would see me when I came home.
Mae hi wedi mynd, ond ni’m gedy byth, mae hi wedi’i serio ynof. Ni allaf adael iddi fynd ychwaith, rhan ohonof ydy -- fy mywyd, fy nghalon, fy ffawd – a’i llais yn llafarganu’r llinell hon am y Dalecs, yn rhedeg trwy fy meddwl hyd heddiw: “Pam fydd rhaid i ni wastad ddifa harddwch? Pam lladd creadur arall achos dyw e ddim yr un ffunud â ni?” Ni amgyffredaf yn wir beth oedd ei hystyr ar y pryd, ond efallai fy mod wedi’i deall bellach.She has gone, but she will never leave me, she is branded into me. I cannot let her to go either, she is part of me -- my life, my heart, my destiny – and her voice intoning that line about the Daleks, running through my mind till today, “Why must we always destroy beauty? Why kill another creature because it is not in our image?” I didn’t in truth grasp what its meaning was at the time, but perhaps I have understood now.
Mae gennyf hyd yn oed yn awr lawer o bethau y dysgodd hi amdanynt imi trwy’i bywyd, ac sy’n mynd gyda fi bob dydd, megis dioddef, a chwerthin, ac amynedd, a chariad. A’r mwyaf ohonynt yw cariad. Cymaint, f’annwyl hen fam-gu, rwy’n dy garu di o hyd.There are, even now, many things that I have which she taught me about through her life, and which go with me each day, such as suffering, and laughter, and patience, and love. And the greatest of them is love. How much, my beloved great-grandma, I love you still.

 

Mwy am Patrick / More about Patrick