Keitha Keyes

Breakfast at Grandad’s

Snuggled in my bed I’d hear Grandad cough a few times and mutter something to Grandma. Then he’d stomp, stomp to the back door. Creak, slam as he went outside to get wood for the combustion stove. Logs dropped on the hearth. Coals raked, flue of the stove thumped. Newspaper scrumpled, kindling snapped. Flicking of matches. Fire door closed, opened, closed again. Pantry cupboard hinges squeaking, lids prised from tins. Saucepan plonked on the stove. Porridge stirred. Clinking of cups and saucers. “All right. Everybody up.”

smiling
at the memories —
once upon a time
I did think
anything was possible