Why did the chicken cross the road?

We've just been to Ballarat, and the first story I want to share isn't one of the town or the sights or the things to do - it's more personal than that.

We visited the memorial to all the ex prisoners of war, to pay our respects to all of them - I walked the length of the memorial, holding my breath in horror at the number of names - but one man in particular, my Grandad.

I often think of when he and my Nanna died, three years ago. Both around their 90s they had lived long lives filled with war, hard work, children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren.

At the time of their funerals I was going through some heavy stuff in my own little world. Depression, and a kind of self-crisis. But as I sat at Grandad's funeral, I looked around the room and I listened to the words of those who loved him. Many bad jokes were told, stories were remembered, tears and laughter and smiles shared. No one, though, spoke of his jobs or promotions or material assets. It didn't matter.

Several weeks later my Nanna passed away. Of course there were medical reasons for her death, but for many of us it seemed to be caused by heartbreak and loneliness. At her funeral I did the same thing - looked around the church and listened to the voices - and the same thoughts struck me.

The meaning of life is this: love. Cheesy, perhaps, but that's it. Family, togetherness, care. Love. At the end of it all, that's what is remembered. Seeing that with such clarity helped me recover back then, and still helps me every day.

As we stood at the POW memorial on the weekend, all these thoughts came back to me.

I described my Grandad to Abbey. Told her he cuddled her once, when she was Iris's age - our baby Iris, named for my Nanna. Told Abbey that she and Grandad have something in common: they both love to tell jokes.

"If he saw you now, he'd love to hear your jokes," I told her. I smiled - I can vividly imagine the two of them sitting together telling joke after joke. "Which is your favourite; which one would you tell him first?" I asked her.

"Ummm..." she gave it some thought before she decided on her favourite. "Why did the chicken cross the road? To get to the other side!"

We all laughed.

Grandad would have had a good chuckle.