Nana

Nana, I remember your house.

I’d enter through that wooden door,

through rainbow beads, and smell 

the cat food you kept in your larder,

on the left.

And above the stove

which smelled of dry heat

there was a tray about

footprints, and how

God was carrying you,
and that plate that read,
and I’m paraphrasing,
‘When mum and dad say no,
ask Nana’.

Your sofas were green

and a small colour TV

rested in the unit in the corner,

by the west-facing window

overlooking the racecourse

where we witnessed 
the best sunsets.

And you had a kind of fabric mosaic

picture of a racehorse,

and I remember your beautiful cats.

And the stairs up to your

neat little room, the spare room

so mysterious to me

and the bathroom,

which smelled of air freshener -

maybe lilies - and the dolly

toilet roll holder in her hanging dress.

And I remember after you died

having dreams about you

where you were sleeping on mum and dad’s

green sofa, and your head

was stuck down behind the cushions,

or you had inexplicably 

come back from the dead.

And it was fine.

I miss you. I miss seeing you walk out

mum and dad’s front door, so tiny,

only four feet eight, your curly white hair,

your wooden stick supporting you,

slightly arthritic fingers, skin so fine

and so wrinkled, your knuckles

so thin and so pronounced.

I wish I could see your house again,

although it’s been occupied since 2005,

to see your garden, where once

rhubarb and beans and cabbage grew,

your tiny shed and the ramshackle pile

of sticks behind, full of spiders

and lizards. And you’d bring me out a cup of tea, 
in small china - so sweet and good.

And the sweetie tin, oh
the sweetie tin.

You’d bend over, and say,

go on, take one. So I’d take my time,

then choose a chocolate-lime. Then you’d say,

take another - a butter fudge, maybe?

And then you’d smile and say,

take three, a third - have one on me.

And I’d spend the longest time

looking through the fruit bon-bons

before inevitably choosing raspberry.