Grandpa’s gone and the sorting begins.
I weep at the plastic fruit on the table,
Explore the glass cabinet of treasures
That I was never allowed to touch.
I dust the photo frames
And empty his sorry little fridge.
I hear the echoes of my girlish laughter
Of so many years ago.
I see my astounded face
When he’d found 10p behind my ear,
When he appeared to have my nose,
When he told me about his childhood.
I creep up the steep, winding stairs
And discover his flat cap on the banister
This crushes me inside,
Bringing heavy sobs of sorrow.
I pick up his harmonica and blow
And he’s instantly back in the room
Until I stop
And he fades away again.
Funny old Grandpa.
Time to let you go.