Never let them go

Our parents teach us many things,  but those skills are not all they leave us with; their very essence is left behind with us for a long as we live. 


Lily of the valley,  an Avon set of scent and talc, 
Wafts of Hamlet, with the impossible sophistication
Of an Air on a G-String,
Strong arms holding,  then not holding,
Onto the back of my bike,
Warm arms holding me safe from nightmares, 
Fried bread houses soaking up sunny siders,
Sunday roasts climaxing the culinary week,
The thwack of a cricket ball before being called in for tea,
The clack of knitting needles - 
Magic knitting, always knitting,  
Never looking at the needles - 
The fuggy hiss of the iron.

On the beach he built no castles in the air
But sculpted cars, boats, planes for us to steer, 
Spent hours on our hall stairs, with a cardboard clock, 
Teaching me the passage of time.

Walking me to school with friends and their mums
Until the route was second nature and we could go alone
Across the fields,  along the roads.
Always there when we got home,   
Or at one of the large coterie of aunties.

Her warm sunny smiles
His quiet presence
Always taken for granted. 

They made us strong so they could let us go,
Never realising 
We would hold on to these memories 
For a lifetime. 


© Copyright 2022. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved

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