Grandad loved me

Grandad loved me

Grandad loved me in a way that stayed,

when the house felt cold and words fell wrong.

He saw me whole, not in pieces,

even when my own mother turned away.

I learned his love in quiet moments,

a chair pulled close, a patient smile.

He listened as if time had stopped,

as if my voice was worth the while.

Mummy’s love was something distant,

a door half closed, a look that missed.

I searched her eyes for something warm,

and found my name on someone else’s lips.

Grandad never asked me to be smaller,

never weighed my heart with blame.

He let me cry without fixing me,

said loving someone was not a game.

Then death came in like a thief at dusk,

and took the one who chose to stay.

The world grew louder, harsher still,

after he was carried away.

At the funeral I stood so alone,

among the flowers and borrowed tears.

I wanted him to see me there,

to tell me I would survive the years.

Now I carry his love like a secret light,

hidden deep where pain cannot reach.

It hurts because it mattered so much,

because he loved me without speech.

If love leaves marks after someone dies,

then I am proof he was real.

Grandad loved me even when she did not,

and that is the wound that also heals.