Grandpa’s town

When we returned from the lake,

my father hugged his uncles

and walked them to their cars.

But, instead of waving goodbye,

they sat on the fence

and told stories

into the night.

Grandpa and the outboard motor.

Grandpa and the volunteer fire brigade.

Grandpa and the scar he wore like a badge

above his right eye.

He told everyone it was from a pub fight,

but it was really a plate thrown by Grandma.

She was smart enough to die

before Grandpa did,

just to prove how much he’d miss her,

lost in the big house

they rented for cheap –

spooking the verandahs,

wandering the gardens,

baffled in the kitchen …

without her.

Grandpa spent his last years

wishing he was dodging flying crockery

rather than waiting for the inevitable.

I sat listening to these stories

from my bedroom window

and saw the lines of memory

creasing my father’s brow,

while he talked his uncles

into being sober enough

to drive away from Grandpa’s town.