Easter Sunday lunch.
Shoulders hunched,
gaze locking gaze –
grandson and grandpa
deep in conversation.
Grandson says,
“How do aeroplanes fly
and what is a black hole?”
scraping every last remnant
of cream from his bowl,
as hungry for knowledge
as his mother’s apple-pie.
“It’s like this" …
his granddad replies.
The years fall away
as he smiles from ear to ear.
A smile I hadn’t seen
for such a very long time –
a victim as he was
of Parkinson’s Disease.
Way back when
I could read him like a book.
Know what he was thinking
by each expression, every look.
“And Grandpa,
if you’re actually that wise,
what’s the ultimate answer
to the ultimate question
about the meaning of life.
Douglas Adams says
it’s number forty-two.
Do you think he's right?”
In fact, his granddad
didn’t need to reply.
The answer to the question
was right there in his smile,
on the face that sprung alive …
if my son had realised.
