goodbye . . . .

My grandfather died this morning.

When I was young boy his job was picking up milk from the farms around Northern Ireland. he took me with him.

I decided I was going to be a farmer.

I started collecting Farmers Weekly.

He used to bring me out to his garden where he kept all his budgies.

We would go outside and talk to the budgies.

He had the most perfectly clipped hedges.

When he hugged me his face was rough with stubble.

Sometimes he smelled of earth. of soil. of damp soil.

He loved country and western music.

He had wee horses above the fireplace.

I grew up on his wheat bread.

Published by Marcus Slease

Born in Portadown, Northern Ireland, Marcus Slease has made his home in such places as Turkey, Poland, Italy, South Korea, the United States, Spain, and the United Kingdom – experiences that inform his nomadic surrealist writing. His latest book is Never Mind the Beasts (Dostoyevsky Wannabe 2020).

8 thoughts on “goodbye . . . .

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