Tuesday, 9 April 2013

My Grandad

(This was written last year, but I thought it best preserved.)

I don’t quite know what to say, really. 

It’s a yawning chasm now – I have no granddads. I don’t have someone who’ll slip me a shifty tenner to help me get food for Uni. I don’t have someone who’ll crack a joke if he sees me picking my nose. I don’t have someone who’ll snore like a rapid-fire machine gun. I don’t have that person who, after a bloody good meal, will lean back in his chair, pat his stomach and say ‘bloody handsome’ in a most satisfied manner. I don’t have my granddad.

What I do have however are the memories: my sister and I going mental and running around the house. I remember playing Uno late into the night on holiday in Spain. I remember his ordering of beer for him and his son (I was never old enough for a beer on holiday): ‘DOS… GRANDEY… BEERS.’ I remember his laugh, which was like someone shaking a can of paperclips and a strong wind blowing an old oak cupboard. I remember his hugs where he couldn’t quite hug you as much as you wanted but would make up for it by shaking you a little bit. I remember eating pork pies and not eating the jelly bit, much to his consternation, what with that being the best bit. I secretly suspect he was a little bit annoyed when I started eating that bit as well. I remember my granddad.

And I know that somewhere, granddad is still wishing me a good night.

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