You held our hands too tightly when we crossed the road.
You gave us money for ice-creams if we bought you one.

You took us out for tea and cakes when we were young.
You made fried bread or trifle for when we got home.

We talked of life and god and of our deepest fears.
You told us all the memories of your earlier years.

You didn't like the loud noise that we children made.
We had to use the spare room for our rowdier games.

I coached you in your stories and your poetry.
We brought you daily papers, womens' magazines.

You shouted out "Who is it?" when we got indoors.
You threw us out the key if we'd forgotten ours.

You crayoned all sorts of pictures with arthritic hands.
We told our problems and you tried to understand.

You worried all your life that you were going to die,
We said you would outlive us,
                                                 Sadly, you were right.

 

 

Note: This poem is now more than 25 years old (as am I)