Grandma

                       1
Do you remember me, Grandma?
You, who in your aged blindness
never saw my boyish face,
but knew my voice;
and touching me with your feeble hands
would marvel at how much I had grown

                       2
Yes, Grandma, I remember you
in all your aged splendour:
especially when standing by your knee,
you would draw your black purse
from your black bag, resting on your black apron,
and thoughtfully fondle the coins.

                       3
Do you remember Grandma,
how polite and studied I was, when,
holding out a coin you would ask:
"How much is that?" And I would tell you?
Well Grandma, it was unbearable
while you fondled two and six.

                       4
Yes, Grandma, I remember, how,
when you came to stay,
you would sit to the front in your blindness,
taking the sea air.
And I especially remember your aloneness
in not being able to see, that beautiful view.

                      5
Do you remember, Grandma,
those long, slow, walks, to the chapel,
when all in black and resting on my arm,
and supported by your black stick,
I would guide you on and off the pavement
and around the many obstacles, until we got there?

                      6
Yes, Grandma, I remember.
And did you ever wonder how I,
a small boy, who liked to leap about the rocks
had the patience for the slow pace?
Or of how others saw me, leading you!
"A case of the blind leading the blind?"

                      7
Do you remember, Grandma,
what we talked about in those timeless moments?
That Grandma, is the one thing I can't remember,
save when by the Salmon Leap you asked to rest,
and I, faced with a choice of three seats, asked:
"Which seat would you like to sit on, Grandma?"

                      8
Yes, Grandma, I remember
how you laughed and said:
"Why! on my own seat of course."
And how I, sitting there beside you, wondered
about grandmas having a sense of humour,
until it was time to guide you safely home.

                      9
And what Grandma might we have talked about
had I not been still in my innocence,
but a philosopher seeking out the truth.
Might we have talked about the anvil of life
on which you, Grandma, were forged,
and which left you dignified in old age.

                      10
But, Grandma, it was not decreed
that you and I should exchange such confidences,
but that I should know you only as Grandma,
and be content with that, as you had to be,
in not knowing the anvil of life, on which I
like you, would be forged.

                      11
So I remember you Grandma,
frail and vulnerable in your own home,
sitting in the corner by the kitchen fire.
And in your eighties, and in your blindness,
never ever idle, but knitting socks,
and gently pestering them, "to turn the heel."

                      12
Do you remember, Grandma,
the cutlery they brought by the bowl
for you to wash. And the sheets you helped fold.
And how, in the quiet of the afternoon
you would lilt, or sing hymns to Mary,
as mother's sing lullabies to their children?

                      13
Yes, Grandma, I remember,
the sacredness of that moment
when in your frailty, the priest brought communion.
And of how you would sometimes fret,
if Kathleen was too long at the shops.
And of how Kathleen would fret, about you fretting.

                       14
Do you remember, Grandma,
my taking your picture as you sat,
proud and erect in the back parlour;
the last before age took its final toll.
A picture that captured the essence:
Your strength, courage and alertness?

                      15
I remember, Grandma,
because I can see it without looking.
You, all in black, with your white hair quaffed
and bedecked with crescent combs.
And those curious black glasses
that far from dimming, gave lustre to your features.

                      16
And if I may speak out of turn, Grandma,
and as someone who never heard
a cross word pass your lips.
The lovely thing about that photograph is,
that you are still clutching that black bag,
as it rests, open, on your black apron.


__________

© Cormac McCloskey

This photograph was taken by me in 1958, when I was 16. Grandma died in 1961 at the age of 93.

Some changes have been made, by me,  to the punctuation, and very slight alteration to the phrasing. Cormac, 17th February 2011