I remember the little stories about the quotidian,
those garden plants, fertiliser and growth
you, tumbling unscathed whilst climbing up yet another tree
your voice, reverberating at the end of a phone line: "hallo???"
And how we marvelled at your F1 driving
as you kept silent
(you liked it secretly, we know)
You were a mechanic
with an unusual gift for sound
And I learnt respect one Sunday morning
when mummy told me your story
of how you closed a dead man's eyes
with a promise of providence
It's the first time death has hit
so close to home
yet it is a difficult concept to grasp,
so far away from home
and still, I return
half-expecting to see you waiting at your door
And i have started to twitch at the word "grandfather"
because you only feel the absence
in light of a presence.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 8:30 PM UTC
I remember the little stories about the quotidian,
those garden plants, fertiliser and growth
you, tumbling unscathed whilst climbing up yet another tree
your voice, reverberating at the end of a phone line: "hallo???"
And how we marvelled at your F1 driving
as you kept silent
(you liked it secretly, we know)
You were a mechanic
with an unusual gift for sound
And I learnt respect one Sunday morning
when mummy told me your story
of how you closed a dead man's eyes
with a promise of providence
It's the first time death has hit
so close to home
yet it is a difficult concept to grasp,
so far away from home
and still, I return
half-expecting to see you waiting at your door
And i have started to twitch at the word "grandfather"
because you only feel the absence
in light of a presence.
