Grandad's Foot Mirror

Dementia; mental decay not where, but what or who
Grandad’s words, mewer and muddled
my name replaced with, ‘my special girl’
The gift,
Black with rough, rusted edges, a paint splattered mirror,
With the declaration to look at my feet with!
Years spent under bits & bobs on my Grandad’s once, very productive work bench before IT came.
A towing mirror in a former life, junk 20 years ago, yearning, destined for a new lease on life?
The gift, met with laughter, as were meal times: butter on cornflakes, sauce on biscuits.
Oh Grandad I’d say,
with a loving smile.
Now packed in our camping gear, it follows us everywhere.
It captures bags under our eyes from late night camp fires toasting marshmallows.
Or as we clamber out of the dewy tent,
tasting the salty morning air,
glancing at ourselves as we smear on sunscreen.
Grandad that will always live on.
It’s not a gift. It’s a treasure.