Remembering Grandfather

1
Free fall

My grandfather, rubbing tobacco, applauded

a grain-filled season, but spoke of pain,

and slouched it like a man under the bag

of all his reaping.

He was driven through stubbled paddocks

curving green with rain, while his dogs

stood at their chains; and one, as if knowing,

barked away crows flocked on netted fencing.

A telephone perched on a table now ruled the farm,

and a listener, summoned by its call,

grimly whispered: He’s sinking fast,

to a family of faces smudged with weeping.

It entered my puzzled thinking that someone

should pull him from the water—how was I to know

aged seven, that dying was eternal free fall,

deeper than water, deeper than air?

2
Funeral

I didn’t go to the funeral, but I heard the bells,

and heard about all the flowers and sadness

when people in their best town clothes and hats

came back to the homestead.

They all ate as if they were starving.

I thought they didn’t want to offend Grandma

by leaving food to go stale, or letting flies crawl over it,

now that Grandfather wasn’t there to eat it.

It’s a sin to waste, I heard an old aunt say,

as she ate her third vanilla slice.

She wore a hat that looked like a day’s shopping

at the bottom of a string bag.

I was embarrassed at such urgent eating

of jam drops, butterfly cakes and scones.

(Grandfather could only suck the juice of a mandarin

when I last saw him and kissed him goodbye).

There was no fun going out under the grape trellis.

My uncles were standing crumpled in black suits;

they seemed far away behind sunglasses,

and my father had been crying.

I decided to play the piano. I remembered

my young aunt playing On Top of Old Smokey

to my grandfather and it soothed him. I hit a few keys

and all the sandwich filled mouths stopped moving.

My old aunt put down the last half of her fourth vanilla slice

and spoke to me savagely from the corner of her mouth:

You can’t do that! Your grandfather is fresh in his grave.

I withdrew as if crushed by a lorry load of lamingtons.

Thereafter, whenever my young aunt played

On Top of old Smokey, I thought it was about

my grandfather freshly buried—

and all covered with snow.

Ken Stone