You with your tidy box of tales a potted journey spanning wars momentous histories pocketed like clean handkerchiefs into the day by days, by decades; all eight of them. Big hands that defied the devil's work frequently floured, lathered or gloved (always wool or cotton for excursions). Conjuring home in steamy odours; cooking pots with rattling lids Monday's soapy boiler, and cakes sponged with jam, that magically rose in time for tea. Evenings we sucked peppermints and learned to sew and knit whilst you cabled jumpers, darned holes pushed yards of cloth through the Singer which chugged like the sound of trains tracking behind the park. From the library came books, stacks of them nothing too highbrow; histories, biographies mostly travellers' tales for crossing the globe by rocking chair. Sucked into the silence of a husband's small, deaf world pouring out snatches of song childhood chronicles and a love that had no voice. Only the feel of a blanket, cosseting and warm against the harsh realities we all knew.
A biographical tale for Sarah’s Poetics prompt: “Grandmothers“