Grandfather
Begin to wonder if he’s in,
no answer to my knock.
Knock again,
then see him approaching
through the frosted glass.
He opens the door:
my grandfather.
A great grandfather,
my children love him, too.
Looking tired, distracted, old.
He is old. Over ninety.
But I’m a little concerned,
he’s lost weight, more dishevelled.
Vaguer, he’s always been so on the ball.
We sit together, chatting.
“I was dozing when you knocked.
Do you know where I was?”
He looks at me quizzically.
“West Africa. It was so clear.”
As a child, his stories of the War
kept me spellbound.
He was away more than four years
in various parts of the world,
including West Africa.
“How is… you know…
I’ve heard she’s not been well?”
I realize he’s struggling to recall
the name of my wife.
But he’s remembered to enquire after her.
Once a gentleman, always a gentleman.
Touching narrative, Jonathan.
Lovely, moving poem. I wonder if you need the last two lines (or even the last 4?) and Grandfather goes from remembering West Africa all those years ago, to struggling to remember the wife’s name?
Sadly, that’s something that sometimes happens to memory in the elderly, isn’t it? The distant past clear as a bell, the preset shrouded in mist. Another thing for us to worry about, Sarah!