She was delivered in a red plastic bag

containing a purple shoe-box, wrapped

within something akin to the paper

that’s used at the chip shop.

Red and purple weren’t her colours,

though she was fond of fish on Fridays.

He dipped in his hand, fighting the tremors

and scooped up bits of the powdery grit,

letting her slip through his fingers again.

His daughter whispered words like hugs

and I remembered how he’d given up

sixty fags a day to stay fit enough

to keep her out of a hospice.

Later we sat in the back yard staring

at space where the tower blocks once stood.

He pulled a packet from out of his pocket

and lit up like an Olympic torch,

the finish of a pilgrimage.