Nan

Cherry

By Bee

Mon, 09 Dec 2013
  • 1939 reads
13 comments
 

I woke and I knew 

that I'd never see her again -

 

never bath in her bath

with Imperial Leather and bubbles

 

eat in her kitchen, or sleep 

in my bed at the foot of her bed

 

and hear her tell stories, or listen

to radio 4, or drink tea

 

and eat toast and then walk 

to the shops at eleven.

 

I'll never invite her to stay

at my house, and no one will drive

 

to collect her, the children excited

to have her come stay -

 

me cooking dinner; being there at the door

to greet her - all neat in her tweed suit

 

and smiling. I'll never plonk a new babe in her lap

and take photos of her

 

thrilled as she was with each one.

I'll never go shopping, or take her to lunch

 

or hold her small hand as she sleeps 

in the hospital bed, kiss her cheek -

 

say, I love you, I'll see you next week

and never again

 

will I hold her, or phone her.

It's been fifteen years since she left

 

and this morning I missed her -

I woke and my pillow was damp

 

and my lashes were wet -

from dreaming again that I saw her.

 

 

 

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Comments

Submitted by Rhiannonw on

A lovely set of gathered memories, well put together.
When my Mum passed on, I would catch myself going to the phone to share something.
Rhiannon

 

Submitted by Bee on

You wanting to phone your mum, I can understand that, Rhiannon. For a long time I used to get the urge to call my nan. I wanted to link some memories together to make a bit of a story - glad you saw that. 

Thank you.

Bee

Submitted by Denzella on

Bee,

You have done a wonderful job here.  This poem really tugs at the heart strings without being over done in any way.  You strike just the right balance and the simplicity of form only adds to the pleasure of reading it.

Moya

 

Submitted by Bee on

Hi Moya.

I'm pleased to know you thought the balance right, that's important to me.  And it's good to know you got pleasure from reading it, too. 

Thanks so much for your lovely comments.

Bee

Submitted by jolono on

Hi Bee, lovely words, well written. I understand entirely.

I wrote a poem on here ages ago called the Missing Seasons, it was about my Dad. He passed away in December a few years back. We used to go racing together and if for some reason he couldn't make it I would always phone him after a big race to discuss the outcome. The following March I was at Cheltenham and had just watched my horse romp home by three lengths. Without thinking I called his number and was amazed that there was no ring tone. I must have called it six times before I realised he wasn't going to answer. That night back at the hotel I sat down and wrote the poem.

 

Submitted by Bee on

Hi Jolono.

That's heartbreaking. The thing is, when you don't live with a loved one, I think it takes longer to come to terms with them not being there. You just think of them at home, just a phone call away. I used to start feeling guilty for not phoning my nan, and then remember that I couldn't anyway, because she wasnt there any more, and feel sad all over again like I'd just lost her. I'm sure it's the same for many. 

Dreams can make you sad, but your most recent story, 'The Dream Maker', although fiction, gave me a new way of thinking about things. Great piece of writing, that, by the way.

 

Bee

Submitted by Silver Spun Sand on

Lost for words, Bee.  Too choked. Beautiful.

Tina

 

Submitted by Bee on

Thank you, Tina.

 

Bee

Submitted by Jane Hyphen on

The smell of Imperial Leather always reminds me of my nan too, although I think they've changed the scent slightly now. What a lovely poem, touching without being sentimental, really captures the little things you miss about her.

 

Submitted by Bee on

Hi Jane.

Yes, I think it smells a bit different, too. It's funny how smells can bring back memories so strongly.

Thank you for your nice comments - I'm glad you liked. 

Bee

Submitted by Bee on

Thanks Editor, for the cherries.

That's very encouraging and appreciated.

Bee

Submitted by jeand on

Hi Bee,

Lovely poem about your grandmother. I never knew either of mine - and my kids never knew my mother.

I liked the way the rhyme sort of skipped from one stanze to the next.

 

Jean

Jean Day

Submitted by Bee on

She was a lovely lady, Jean. Grandparents can be so important - if you never knew yours, I guess it's a good excuse for you to make all the more fuss of your own. 

Thank you for thinking about my poem,

Bee