These strange things that hold sentimental value
like my great grandmothers’ pocket watch
it has one hand only to tell the time by
and no longer winds or ticks, the silver case is badly tarnished
family jewellery, engagement and eternity rings
the big old seashell my grandfather kept in the hallway for years
that I used to hold up to my ear to hear the sea
old pencil sketches he made of his allotment
where we used to plant vegetable seeds together and watch them grow.
Kitsch ornaments that play musical tunes
old teddy bears threadbare, stinking of age
knitted hand puppets made by my grandmother
stitches weak and unravelling
a moth-eaten Robert Burns poetry book
dated 1896 with yellow thin fragile pages
a rhinestone necklace that used to grace the youthful neck
of my grandmother when Clark Gable was her favourite actor.
The last time my grandad held my hand before he died
sometimes I can still feel his grip on my fingers
I don’t think we ever truly let go, do we?