For the first time in a while though, today, I've felt compelled to think out loud. Two weeks ago today, my Grandma passed away and, yesterday, we said our final goodbyes.
I'm lucky enough to have known all of my grandparents for 24 years, so this is my first real experience of grief. I hope she'd have been proud of my writing - in all likelihood, she'd have found it far too indulgent...
Unforgettable
I lost sight of you in the last few years of your life.
I don't know if you would forgive me for that.
Part of me thinks you wouldn't have wanted me to remember you that way.
Last time I saw you, you were in Emily Baker's vest and, all of a sudden, conversation was my responsibility.
I walked into your house yesterday and I felt fine.
But then I saw the toys that you had knitted for us as children and the reality of the moment struck me:
Only slipped away into the next room, supposedly.
But that room is locked and you've left everything that was you in here with me.
The fridge magnet still says that it's your kitchen.
The old biscuit tins are still there as much your porcelain figures.
All eyes are on your chair but there's no one to hold council.
Time has caught up with us both. You're no longer here and I am no longer a child.
Grandpa, in his own unique way, seems content that you're no longer in pain.
We told the stories of this house, the one that you lived your life in.
The one your parents built and the one where Dad asked Mum to marry him;
The squabble when the neighbours cut the hedge;
The time the kids threw a house party and Grandbo caught a couple short in the bathroom...
I don't know how many more stories this house has left to write for us,
Nor how many meringues are left to be eaten.
But I suddenly feel like my memories of you,
Belong to a different me.
I know I won't see you again.
You're not waiting to greet me in some divine place.
You'd scoff if I thought you were.
But I'll keep you with me,
In every word and phrase,
'Til I'm past my best,
And 'til the end of my days.
Unforgettable
I lost sight of you in the last few years of your life.
I don't know if you would forgive me for that.
Part of me thinks you wouldn't have wanted me to remember you that way.
Last time I saw you, you were in Emily Baker's vest and, all of a sudden, conversation was my responsibility.
I walked into your house yesterday and I felt fine.
But then I saw the toys that you had knitted for us as children and the reality of the moment struck me:
Only slipped away into the next room, supposedly.
But that room is locked and you've left everything that was you in here with me.
The fridge magnet still says that it's your kitchen.
The old biscuit tins are still there as much your porcelain figures.
All eyes are on your chair but there's no one to hold council.
Time has caught up with us both. You're no longer here and I am no longer a child.
Grandpa, in his own unique way, seems content that you're no longer in pain.
We told the stories of this house, the one that you lived your life in.
The one your parents built and the one where Dad asked Mum to marry him;
The squabble when the neighbours cut the hedge;
The time the kids threw a house party and Grandbo caught a couple short in the bathroom...
I don't know how many more stories this house has left to write for us,
Nor how many meringues are left to be eaten.
But I suddenly feel like my memories of you,
Belong to a different me.
"The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there."
I know I won't see you again.
You're not waiting to greet me in some divine place.
You'd scoff if I thought you were.
But I'll keep you with me,
In every word and phrase,
'Til I'm past my best,
And 'til the end of my days.
Beatifully written Tim, I'm sure your gran would be very proud of you. Sorry for your loss xxxxx
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