Another Wreath At The Door
Her hands are cold
and she smells, not of talc,
but of something not quite right.
She pulls me against her beads,
hugs me for ages,
then stares her lilac eyes
straight in my face.
“Always remember,” she says,
“wherever you go, God loves you
but I love you best.”
I know what it means –
another sharp green wreath,
shiny in polythene,
will appear on the step.
Red leaves will blow through the door
into Grandma’s empty shoes
and Mum and Dad will whisper
behind my back, that nothing
seems to have sunk in yet.
Page(s) 22
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