06-08-2011, 06:36 AM
My grandpa, he was a funny old goat.
A short little man known to all as 'wee Wullie'.
I had the pleasure of going to his house every Sunday
though maybe it was best.
My mother was usually well onto her third vodka by the time i left.
Along the way to his house, i counted pebbles and puddles,
deliberately avoided cracks in the pavement by skipping
and the best part was when there was lots of little cracks
close together. I always spent the longest time
making sure i didn't miss any spaces in between them.
I made sure my journey was long.
His garden was like you would imagine Eden to be
but with garden gnomes and a rather cheeky looking frog
with a crack on the left side.
I tried to fix the crack once by coloring it green with a crayon.
The evidence was still there, just faint.
He always knew when to open the door for me.
He watched and waited at his window
twitching the yellow, nicotine stained net curtains.
I didn't ever once have to knock his door.
His hair was long, around chin length but bald on top
and his false teeth were so big that they flapped when he talked.
Would put you in mind of a horse at times.
He made me lunch, usually toast and jam then a pomegranate
which to me was a treat!
My mother rarely bought decent food.
Those teeth, horrid they were.
When he ate his food, there was always nearly a second meal
stuck right there on the front of them.
I was never really good with food.
Only ever ate the piece of fruit he gave to me.
That was like my weekly treat after all!
Or maybe a pack of cheese and onion crisps from
the shop if i found money that my mother dropped
down the side of the sofa.
After lunch, it was always the same routine.
Me, sitting in his brown living-room, listening to Sandy Shaw
or the latest record he fancied.
His black and white T.V was always on but with no sound
and as i waited for him to finish the dishes,
i picked the skin from around the sides of my finger nails
which often resulted in them bleeding a little.
After waiting for what felt like forever, and this never changed
from week to week,
he would tell me to go to his room and position myself
in front of the very large antique full length mirror.
The mirror belonged to his late wife, who i am sure was lovely,
though i never got the chance to meet her.
Getting undressed was always unpleasant
and so was the journey home
It hurt to walk.
A short little man known to all as 'wee Wullie'.
I had the pleasure of going to his house every Sunday
though maybe it was best.
My mother was usually well onto her third vodka by the time i left.
Along the way to his house, i counted pebbles and puddles,
deliberately avoided cracks in the pavement by skipping
and the best part was when there was lots of little cracks
close together. I always spent the longest time
making sure i didn't miss any spaces in between them.
I made sure my journey was long.
His garden was like you would imagine Eden to be
but with garden gnomes and a rather cheeky looking frog
with a crack on the left side.
I tried to fix the crack once by coloring it green with a crayon.
The evidence was still there, just faint.
He always knew when to open the door for me.
He watched and waited at his window
twitching the yellow, nicotine stained net curtains.
I didn't ever once have to knock his door.
His hair was long, around chin length but bald on top
and his false teeth were so big that they flapped when he talked.
Would put you in mind of a horse at times.
He made me lunch, usually toast and jam then a pomegranate
which to me was a treat!
My mother rarely bought decent food.
Those teeth, horrid they were.
When he ate his food, there was always nearly a second meal
stuck right there on the front of them.
I was never really good with food.
Only ever ate the piece of fruit he gave to me.
That was like my weekly treat after all!
Or maybe a pack of cheese and onion crisps from
the shop if i found money that my mother dropped
down the side of the sofa.
After lunch, it was always the same routine.
Me, sitting in his brown living-room, listening to Sandy Shaw
or the latest record he fancied.
His black and white T.V was always on but with no sound
and as i waited for him to finish the dishes,
i picked the skin from around the sides of my finger nails
which often resulted in them bleeding a little.
After waiting for what felt like forever, and this never changed
from week to week,
he would tell me to go to his room and position myself
in front of the very large antique full length mirror.
The mirror belonged to his late wife, who i am sure was lovely,
though i never got the chance to meet her.
Getting undressed was always unpleasant
and so was the journey home
It hurt to walk.
Few are those who see with their own eyes and feel with their own hearts.