For Grandad

I was at home pretending to be ill
when the phone rang.
I was the only one in.
Dad was out at a conference in Newcastle;
Mum was at work in Carlisle.
It was nan.
"Jonathan?"
"it's your Grandad."

Somehow Mum came home;
I put my head on her shoulder;
We told each other that he wasn't dead,
not yet, not at all.
But Dad came back early from the conference
and headed straight down to Manchester.

We took it in turns through the week
to spend time in their bungalow on Brandle Avenue
but I never saw Grandad.
In the hospital he was hooked up to a machine
and on Saturday
they cut off his feet
in an effort to improve his body temperature.

On Sunday,
Dad came back to take the morning services;
We went to the Ship for lunch.
I ordered ham, egg and chips
and Dad had his usual.
Before the food arrived a call came in
which Dad went behind the bar to take.
"No change," he said,
sitting back down as the food arrived.
We ate,
talking about Grandad,
about how things were now, how they would be,
how great it would be to see him again.
Dad paid,
and we took the short walk home.
The house looked the same as ever.
We walked into the small hallway
that divided the study from the rest of the house
- the parish from the family -
"You know, don't you?"
he said
and I started to cry.