Grandma Reyah Martin
Grandma Reyah Martin
GRANDMA
Your ‘I love you,’ is the greatest of my gifts.
It tastes of hard, hot sun, under-fountain
barbecues on the veranda. I hold the heat
on my tongue until distance melts, and the
soft middle is your smell in a mouthful:
cinnamon and huge, heavy-scented powder
brushes and compact mirrors, silver, shining.
Your ‘I love you,’ comes from a foreign place
where I will always be a stranger until I can
touch your hand. It lifts, laughs, lingers like
sugar-traces, silken scarves, high-heels spinning
high and lower and lower until you can’t walk far
and we stumble into a sunset, lifting each other
laughing, lingering over the already-forgotten.
Your ‘I love you,’ melts into mine, and dissolves
in a half-moon, hopeful heart on the other side of
the phone, crackly in the hope that you’ll remember
how old I was when I fell off the swings, how I
slip into words these days: Bonjour. Adieu.
And that I call you on other days too, not just
my birthday.
Your ‘I love you,’ is the sweeter side of a lemon.
The sweet-bitter-sweet that no-one is prepared for
less than a second, more than a scent, like hearing
your voice over a tangle of phone-lines, tasting
of the hard, hot sun and the under-fountain
memories that take you piece by piece, so that
your ‘I love you,’ is the last beautiful certainty
that I can be certain of.
(C) Reyah Martin 2019