by Bob Mundle

Created on: April 02, 2010

My Grandmother’s Teardrop

My childhood memories

Live forever in Grandma’s teardrop.

I only have to close my eyes,

And start to visualise

A pear-shaped, pea-green glass,

Recumbent on tissue-paper

In a black malachite box;

And I am back

At her parlour window

Watching the sun through the prism

Held between thumb and forefinger,

Infusing the room

With a multifaceted emerald glow,

Irradiating scenes of eons ago.

Here we are, burning scones on coke,

With her old toasting fork;

Butter melting in the hearth

Homemade blackcurrant jam

Ready to spread, with a dollop of cream

Thick and juicily dreamy.

‘Nana, they’re BLACK’

‘Darling, it’s carbon, the lack

Of which will stunt your growth.’

I’m not convinced, but her smile,

Nicotine yellow, that’d frighten a crocodile,

Fills my heart with joy.

The aroma of hot pastry sizzles the air;

Oh, and they taste, like ambrosia.

Easter, and seven little bunnies hop, hop,

Hop the lawns that Terry the gardener

Slaves over so lovingly every Wednesday.

An egg hunt, following Nana’s trail

So cunningly laid and aided by our Mothers.

All of us hoping be the first one

To get hands on the multicoloured,

Chocolate-hearted spheres, and beat the others.

See, this square of grass looks newly dug;

Pinch the trowel from Nan’s trug and start digging.

Watch out – here comes Terry, running, shouting:

Stop that you little hooligans!

Now Nana and the mothers are shaking with laughter

Waving a basket of eggs in the air.

Christmas, and snow is sparkling

Over the conifers and privet. The seven of us

Create a snowman called Gus

With shiny coal eyes and a carrot nose

And Grandpa’s pipe and scarf.

Nana awards the prize, and in our eyes

Can anything be as good as this?

Dad gives Mum a sly kiss under mistletoe.

Now Grandpa’s singing: Onward , Christians Go

As he always does after his third glass of port.

Sitting at the head of the large table,

Groaning with food and crackers and laughs.

We can never go back.  But is it is all still there;

Those precious memories, trapped in amber,

In my Grandmother’s teardrop.

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