Grandad

I remember you were always handing me books,

Telling me how important they were.

I remember feeling special

That you trusted me with these precious worlds.

I remember opening them – the smell of old paper,

The worn pages,

The cracked, peeling covers.

 

I remember hurtling through stories hunting for messages and secrets I could bring back to you.

I remember exchanging favourite characters,

Feeling like I got a part of you that no one else did.

 

I remember discovering them again on my shelves every time I moved,

Cushioning them in boxes labelled ‘Handle with Care’

And no matter where we ended up, always finding a special place for them to sit.

 

I remember running my fingers along dusty spines, my face washed with tears.

I remember reliving every single one, and feeling like you had never really left.

 

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