Between the ages of 7 and 18, I went to boarding school and access to family was pretty restricted. I spent most holidays with my parents who lived in a number of exotic locations overseas, but I used to spend my Sunday exeats with my Grandparents.
This afternoon I was thinking about all the Sundays we spent together back then. I remember Gran best as sadly Grandpa died when I was only 11. Gran always treated my brother and me as if we were her own sons and I guess during those magical Sundays we were!
I wrote this poem shortly after Gran died;
Hands
I sit beside her bed,
thinking of what’s ahead.
Her frail hand rests in mine,
and our fingers entwine.
Our hands wear their love,
as if it were a glove.
Her gnarled arthritic finger,
upon my palm does linger.
Could it remember the time,
it first met mine?
My tiny pink hand,
gripping her wedding band.
Perhaps it could recall,
holding me lest I fall?
Or swinging me by the arm,
As we walked around the farm.
And with a gentle squeeze,
my worries she’d appease.
But alas as I grew,
our embraces became few.
It wasn’t cool for a young man,
to be seen holding hands with Gran.
Yet in the autumn she took my arm,
and it had a certain charm.
Her hand would rest on mine,
as we walked beside the brine.
Well met these hands, o’er all the years,
They’ve shared both happiness and tears.
We sit in silence, no words needed,
as memories of our hands are heeded.
She draws my fingers to her lips,
And with a gentle kiss; she slips.
John Carré Buchanan
10 September 2010
