Poem: Grandad
Today I found out that you are going to die.
This shocks me to my core, but I don’t know why.
You are suddenly fragile, vulnerable, and terminally weak
And I have lost the ability to cry, scream or speak.
In a darkened room, memories of you flood my thoughts
Moments, sudden in their clarity, are clearer than before.
I know I thought of you less in recent years than I ought.
But I do not know you now, as I knew you then, anymore.
I feel Guilt, mixed with intense frustration at your misunderstanding.
My confusion at the unbelievable sacrifices you were demanding.
You did not understand me then as you did when I was a child
I did not bring smiles, upside down hugs or laughter so wild.
But these are the things I remember about you
These are the things I hope stick, after you say adieu:
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Double-digging, scattering “horse muck”, planting seeds,
Chasing blackbirds after Grandma’s berries, piles of weeds.
Making garden soup in a bucket with weeds and mud,
You pretending to eat it and telling me it tastes good.
Digging up carrots and spuds, picking runner beans,
Putting rocks we think are ancient in the pockets of my jeans.
My muddy half-sized fork next to your grown-up spade,
Me squealing, you shooing away spiders because I was afraid.
You carving roast dinner, giving me breadcrumbs for the sparrows
Shelling peas for Grandma, running with my mini-wheelbarrow.
Making things with wood, that no one could really use
Sitting in the armchair for a Sunday afternoon snooze.
The little table you kept for me to do my drawings on,
Where you would do the scissors bit, because I was too young.
Colouring in while you “rest your eyes”
All of these things; but no goodbyes.
No goodbyes.
