My grandad tells his stories again and again and again. Stories of his part in the war for the most part. Occasionally he speaks of his first wife who died young. Sometimes he speaks about fishing. Mostly though, he goes over what he saw and what he did during the war. Many of the stories aren't pleasant but that doesn't stop him bringing them up at parties. Round and round and round the stories go. I think it's because there are some actions that you can't justify, can't make peace with. You can tell those stories again and again but some events are so dark that they scar your consciousness permanently, rendering you unable to live in the moment, always drawing you back to the past.
Today I visited my grandad, along with two of my sisters. He told us several stories, moving between fantasy and reality, dwelling in a liminal space between civilization and the wildnerness. We tried to steer him away from the darkness and into some memories which we could handle. The poem below reflects one such story.
Visiting Grandad
"You saw a giraffe in the road
once, right?"
Wild eyebrow's hooked, a glint of
something lost.
"It was hard to see in the
thick twilight
At first we thought we were seeing
a post.
By the side of the road, so tall
and straight.
Kenyan night creeping in like
hyenas
Our truck throwing up a cloud in
our wake
Soldiers' eyes struggle in lush
arenas
Lions watching with their eyes like
emeralds
Flies whining at the scent of
sweating pores
Whistling Thorn speaks to strangers
of reverance
Grasses boast mambas and jackals
and boars.
Giraffes still surprise, alone by
the road.
Were you there?" "No,
it's a story you told."