Updated: May 3, 2021
Granny seemed old to me; I was six;
She was fifty, and she dyed her hair.
My mind might be playing tricks, but
she looked like Elizabeth Taylor.
She had no Richard Burton to woo her; she
was a widow at her only daughter’s wedding,
sitting quietly in the corner on her own,
and I ran over to her because for me, she was everything
Yet, everything doesn’t quite describe this woman,
who loved me always, even when I disappointed her.
She introduced me to so much-Kelvingrove museum
will always be special for me; she took me there
She was my shelter in difficult times; I was a rebel,
victim of circumstance and bad choices.
She never judged, always loved-and prayed for me;
I was unaware of the three years of broken sleep.
She told my friend once it was over, without
a word of annoyance or regret-she kept
me covered with her prayers, there’s no doubt;
waiting patiently till I eventually saw sense.
Two broken vacuum cleaners later, her memory failed;
she carried a photo of me at fifteen, saying, you’re getting so big.
She looked over her shoulder, whispering, and I asked her
what was wrong-she told me nobody.
Dementia happened; she looked sad, cos she knew
her marbles were rolling down the drain.
She became angry, but not with me;
yes, she would smile as I dried her hair.
22nd December, a child is born-a girl;
the phone rings on boxing day-I’m summoned.
On her death bed she lies, surrounded by the women
as the men play cards in another room.
She looks at me and asks about the baby;
I promise that she’ll see her tomorrow.
As I leave, she pipes up and reminds me,
clear as a bell, ‘Don’t forget now.’ I smiled.
As she held my daughter, she looked content, happy;
leaving, I looked back. Her eyes were glazed.
4th January 2000-4am-that dreaded call;
She was no more, only her glove remained.