In memory of Edna May Wood (1912-2005)

Loneliness of the long-distanced grandmother

A Grandma conjures images of sunny afternoons,

Of cottages and roses, of happy nursery tunes,

Of sandwiches with tea and cakes, fresh made that very day,

Of hide and seek, and chase, and lots of other games to play,

Of laughter and hilarity, and old songs loudly sung,

Of tales of happy days when mum or dad were very young

Of working hard to give the kids the best they could afford

Of seeing their success and happiness enough reward

Of living in a shoebox in the middle of the street,

Of slabs of bread and dripping ‘cos that’s all there was to eat.

Of playing football in the street, a tin can for a ball,

Of climbing into great, tall trees, determined not to fall

Of running barefoot in the park, among the Autumn leaves

Of telling tales of derring-do that each of them believes

Of smiling as she tucked them in, abed at close of day

Of being poor but happy in a funny sort of way

But often it’s not like that and it really is a shame

It seems for what her life’s become, someone must be to blame.

Just why do Grandmas whinge that they are always on their own

And why is it that everything they say is such a moan,

The cost of living is so high it’s hard to make ends meet.

The postman never brings her mail.  They’re digging up the street.

She just can’t get around the way she used to any more

And walking makes her legs ache so. Her feet get very sore.

The man next door won’t speak because the two of them once rowed.

The people on the other side play music awfully loud.

The roof leaks and the fridge is broken.  Why does no-one care?

Her only friend’s her telly.  She just has to sit and stare.

But programs are not what they were.  The great names are all dead.

It’s sex and too much violence.  That’s all they have instead.

She never sees the family.  They’re always busy, out.

And no-one loves her.  That’s for sure.  Of that there is no doubt.

She thinks she can say anything she wants to anyone

She’ll drone on endlessly about something someone has done

She’ll vilify and rant and rave, condemning out of hand,

She’ll crush. She’ll hurt.  She’ll torture.   She’ll crucify.  She’ll brand

But no-one must remind her of the things she said or did

Such words said viciously in haste must be forever hid.

And so she sits there lonely staring at the empty wall

And wonders why it is that no-one ever seems to call.

She must think no-one else has troubles.  She’s the only one

She never thinks of problems faced by daughter or by son

A grandchild’s life is easy.  What have they to moan about?

But children too face difficulties, tough questions and self-doubt.

And each one faces hardship no more bearable with youth.

Their life no easy picnic.  Just as hard.  And that’s the truth.

So why does Grandma wonder that she’s always on her own?

The doorbell never rings for her.  She sits and waits, alone.

© Ken Wood 2005