A eulogy

Grandad Charlie died on a Tuesday, June 2018.

He called me The Kid

Even when I was an adult

Spelt it out in rose petals on the lawn once

‘Welcome Home The Kid’

He had a handshake that needed an extra hand

Regardless, he set the precedence for manners in men

I swore I would only ever marry a man who walks on the gutter side and says bless you.

Grandad had beautiful hands

Hands worth holding

gnarly, burly, capable, artful hands,

soft hands, worn hands,

hands that raised four children.

Hands which nodded thistles and knotted

twine around sweet bales of hay.

Hands which threw fleeces again, again and again

Hands that birthed spindly new lambs

then picked up lost slinkies.

Grandad, I can feel you

your lovely hands that farmed the land

and later made perfect lawn.

Hands which harvested walnuts and filled the wood box.

Hands which made cricket bats and netball hoops

And delivered bags of Easter apples

They kept neighbourhood hedges neat

and tools in the shed well oiled

Your hands made music adding sparkle to the lives of biddies

One of them used to sing Danny Boy whilst

doing dishes with sunlight soap.

Your hands made fireside comfort rugs

Brought warmth to chilly feet

Your hands squeezed oils from tiny tin tubes

and one held the other as you brushed wildlife, alpine, rivers, sea and peaks onto paper, boards and canvas.

Then framed them.

You painted a white heron, I loved it,

Grandma wanted it.

She wanted it a lot, but you stuck to your guns,

Grandma was fierce sometimes, that was admirable

I felt special.

The day after you closed your eyes, not just for forty caravan winks,

I kicked around a farm,

messed around on a Massey.

Took a stroll

and it can’t have been coincidence

there was a graceful, contented white heron beside an orange tree,

If I reflect back, I land at four

On the back of the ute, arms around the dogs, wind in my hair

Laughing over bumps

and filled with glee in finding sweets

under stones the faeries had left.

You wipe a perpetual clear drip

just the one, from your snoz

And issue me advice for my bum

‘Use the rabbit ears for wiping, they’re better than dock leaves’.

Your hands held themselves behind your back as you strolled

up the street

Always on the gutter side

Your hands prepared perfect supper snacks

Apple, quartered, pips cut out. One giant spiral peel

You snuck me ice cream cones even when Grandma said no

‘ No. No ice cream, You do it for one you have to do it for them all’

Your hands twisted the lid of the thermos

And held her baking

up hills, in forests and amongst the tussock.

Before star dot, you painstakingly typed an autobiography

beginning to end with only a hint of Tippex

Those hands cut buttered toast into triangles

You had marmalade but sliced slithers and spread them with marmite

to share with your whiskered sidekick

Your hands and heart grew frustrated when you could no longer drive, tie laces, or turn taps.

Seasons tumbled into the other, ‘ I’m well past my use by date’

Your eyes like your hands grew weary

‘don’t get old, getting old is for the dogs,

I tell you, Wednesday wash day is murder’

Your pockets stashed pretend poo, whoopee cushions and rubber chocolate.

Your eyes were once full of bashful prankster,

I squeeze you gently

goodbye,

Your raspy cheek and soft brushed cotton, collar

You smell like you’ve been out chopping wood and kindling

Dear Grandad

Tea cups are kissing saucers

Grandma is calling you.