A visit was due.
It had been a while since our last one.
I buttoned up my coat,
for winter had come.

The walk was short,
my father at the lead.
He held the bouquet and cake
and he moved with speed.

We came together to celebrate,
Each of us bringing something to the feast.
It was her day.
Yet he sat in his seat, uncaring at the least.

I had to be civil,
so I walked on in,
and shook his hand,
I wished him well, though I think I lied. Was it a sin?

No, then I realised I meant it.
Not for him, but for her,
to ease her worries and cares,
because I cared for her, she was my grandmother.

The room was full.
We were together as planned.
The fire blazed.
Cake in our hands.

Her favourite show came on,
but he called for a change as his attention drifted.
It was her day, I thought,
and she deserved to do what she wanted, to do something different.

It was getting late,
and he wanted to go and rest.
But as she helped him up, he produced something,
A necklace of silver, pure and brilliant, and whispered, ''You're the best''.

Then as he exited the room,
I wished him well once again.
He nodded.
I nodded back with love this time, not disdain.


I realised then they were from a different age,
An age of hidden emotion,
but it was theirs,
and they loved each other through the quiet and the unwanted commotion.