Gone… but not forgotten

Chèr Grandpapa,
All my life, today has been your birthday.
Ushering in the spring, Easter, the return of songbirds.
Do you remember introducing me to pussywillows? The softness of their fur on our cheeks?
Every jigsaw puzzle reminds me of you, every reference to Reader’s Digest. Bridge. Jarred artichokes and palm hearts. Velour sofas. Foreign currency.
These are the memories you’ve given me, stored in a faded silken jewellery box in my mind. A jumbled treasure trove of happiness and comfortable adventures, resulting in – somewhat mysteriously – my love of bright colours.
Today is no longer your birthday – there are no more candles.
I smelled your cologne on a passing whiff of wind today, though, heard your voice in the sound of the birds. And this refrain, however faint, poking, peaking through the moments just like the crocuses peeping cheekily up from the no-longer barren earth:
Chèr Grandpapa, c’est a ton tour, de te laisser parler d’amour…


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