St Maurice's High School: Daniel Parkinson

 

 

Gran

Losing all senses.
Everything drowning out.
As she rocks me.
Singing in my ear.
her voice is clear.
Now blacked out.
The smell of hot tea.
the smell of freshly baked bread.
Forgotten.
Warm wooly cardigan.
Now cold.
Her face old but gentle.
With lots of experience.
Blinking out.
Everything.
All of me.
Out cold.
A gentle dream follows.

A few years later.
A messy sight.
Everything either covered in flour or left alone.
The sweet smell of meringues, tablet and shortbread.
Noise.
Deafening.
All the mixers and oven and running tap.
Trickling and machine.
The silent hum.
All banging in my head.
The air feels warm.
This closed space.
So hot.
My flesh is like a power hose.
Non-stop.
Then I'm like a sticky bun.
I step out of the kitchen.
I step back in.
From the Tundra to Sahara.
Everything out of the oven.
Scents so strong you can taste it.
Melted chocolate chips.
The cooked sugar in the fudge.
The taste of sweet soft tablet.
She's there in the middle.
All this hard labour.
For others.
Not herself.
her brittle,
wrinkled hands.
never caring about herself.
Only for others.
God's plan for us.
not self-centred.
For others.
Thats how she was.

by Daniel Parkinson