Iona Winter

My Grandfather sleeps a lot these days. When he’s awake he repeats the same questions, or remembers random facts from the past.

“I owned a Chevrolet Impala in 1967.”

Way before my time.

He lost his marbles, searching for words that had always been abundant in forthcoming.

Then my Grandmother started speaking more often, through him, but with her own words.

She was like a mind reader.

“He wants to gather shellfish,” she said one afternoon.

This thing needed no words. And so we went.

Our toes dug at the water’s edge, searching for hardness beneath the sand. Dinner.

He thought I was my mother. I didn’t correct him.

An incoming wave swished through our woven basket of molluscs, splashing his rolled up trousers.

Granddad looked at me and laughed.

“I know what you’re up to,” he said with a wink, “she wanted me out of the house.”

Author Note: ‘Lost Marbles’ was previously published with Ad Hoc Fiction (Dec 2015). Since I’m headed to the Edinburgh International Book Festival to read my writing (later this month) I wanted to share something other than my poetry.