Odes to the Erotes

Christopher (Song of Storge)

You always smiled,

an 'open all the cages at the zoo' kind of smile.

Even as you danced to dodge the lightning-bolts.

Tough old thing.

Old people have a magic to them.

He estimated and measured, worked out the end heights of everyone in the family.

And he was never wrong.

He said I'd be six foot exactly, best not break his streak.

If I do, he might just call the big man upstairs a tosser.

That'd be just like him.

Tough was the word for him. I've heard the stories.

RAF during the war, when hell descended.

Calm and collected on the ground.

I like to imagine him in an RAF base, sitting in his armchair and doing crosswords.

And then the illnesses hit.

Like the devils checklist.

And he dodged all but one.

Cancer, three times. A car accident. And a stroke.

The universe really tried, but the wily old trickster outran it.

He was taken when he was asleep. Because if he was awake,

there would have been a fight.

I'm not the most talkative person.

He was the opposite. Always cracking jokes.

Always telling stories. Some I can't repeat.

I can't tell you what my great grandad named his cat, for instance.

I'll just tell you it was a black cat, and let you figure it out.

But no, I was never very talkative.

And one day he said to me,

"You don't call me Grandad. You can call me Chris, If you want."

I'd never had need to. I just talked when I had something to say.

Always referred to him as Grandad, when I spoke about him.

I remember he had this joke he'd like to repeat, whenever anyone had money.

"If it has the Queen's head on it, its mine."

Like the Queen, he was permanent. A fact.

Like the colour of the walls, or the size of the room.

His chair looks so empty now.

You got a bit muddled, near the end.

There were funny moments, like when you forgot certain animals.

You couldn't recognise an Octopus, that I remember.

But at one point you forgot some of your relations. And that wasn't fun.

I wish I had sat with you more.

I know some nights, I'd sit down with you and Nan in the living room

helping you with your crossword until late.

How much I'd give to do that again.

Five across, synonym for legend.

Grandad. Chris. I wish I'd called you either.

I wish we had more time.

But the memories I do have are worth as much as every day the world has left.

I can't wait to do the crossword with you again. To give you all those coins I owe you. To prove your mad Irish old person alchemy right.

I didn't cry the night that you died.

I used to feel guilty about that.

But now I know why.

You're free.

You're no longer in pain.

You don't have to fight.

Put down your sword, oh mighty warrior. Your war is done.

Time to rest,

in the green glens

where your eyes remember

and your smile,

takes its rightful place as ruler of everything.