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GRANDAD
There will always be the vivid image of; his suit jacket, the hat that never came off his head, and his sweet filled pockets, of "Frosties and Fizzy Colas" from Mags.
The horrendous smell from the uncleaned dog sheds. The outhouse, with the bird's nest above the door, and the occasional wild hare next door for blooding.
Him, out walking the dogs in the field, beating down the boucahlains with his stick. His great passion for the birds, this we all remember.
We do not suppress our loss, instead we laugh, remembering the time he drove Bridie and Little John to town in third gear.
I will always have the distinct memory of him reading the newspaper, whispering so gently, it sounded like a soft undulating role of hisssssss; oh, and those filthy square glasses, his hat still perched, and his stick a hand away.
The day Fran died, he was so overcome with emotion, tears streaming down his face, us children sent from the kitchen.
Five years ago he sat in his chair, his hat still perched, and his stick a hand away, only this time it's different, his mind has slipped.
He does not remember me now.
Trichia, Geraldine, Bridie he calls,
No, it's Shelly, grandad, I laugh it off, but always knowing that he slowly slips away.
Now we are the ones sitting in the kitchen, so overcome with emotion, tears stream down our faces. We comfort each other, lamenting on the past. All those joyful year we had, we are so grateful.
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