Grandpa

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.