The youth in your voice is wavering, like marbles spilling out of a bag
rolling onto the floor and getting lost in corners.
Leave them be, you say, it doesn’t matter if we don’t get them back.
But I collect them one by one, and you get your words out
with a few sharp breaths and a tight grip around my hand.
You still have your sense of humour, the same glint in your eye when you joke
But you don’t ask many questions now
it takes all of your energy to speak.
Your skin is a silvery purple; I wonder when did it change?
So thin I can see right through to your bones
Nearly a century supporting your frame.
Gone is the strength for Chinese burns
(or worse – something I’m sure you invented – Indian burns)
and the funny faces you pulled.
I could be ten years old again
reading with you on the sofa, a fresh cup of tea in your hand.
You’ve fought wars in silence, trusting only in God.
A faith fuelled by hope
and love – always love – pushes you on
but I wonder how you never complain?
Then I hear in the dark of your kitchen one night
as I’m washing up another day
you singing from your bed Grandma’s favourite hymn;
Is it a song for her or a plea to God?
Again, I ask how can only praise pass your lips?
For all my life I have lived while she has been gone
and you carry on
waiting to see her again.
