A poem for my Grandmother, Sheilah, and her parents, Anna and Stan
—
The morning the telegram arrived, my Sheilah – just one month old –
babbled a noise that sounded like « Daddy ».
Stan would’ve beamed with pride, his laughter echoing through the house,
claiming he was her first choice.
The day I met him was bittersweet.
A Canadian pilot – so glamorous – sent to Scotland to fight the war.
Full of pride and his duty to his nation, a duty he would fulfil unto death.
A baby himself, just 26.
The morning the telegram arrived, I was rocking in my rocking chair,
knowing too much, in constant motion but frozen suddenly with dread.
A knock at the door, and I rose. Before me a telegram boy, a little “angel of death”
Unfolding the message, I read with trembling hands,
« DEEPLY REGRET TO ADVISE THAT YOUR HUSBAND WAS KILLED
ON ACTIVE SERVICE OVERSEAS
DECEMBER TWENTY FIRST STOP
PLEASE ACCEPT MY PROFOUND SYMPATHIES STOP
LETTER FOLLOWS”
All this time, I knew, nobody lasts forever, not Stan, not love.
The morning the telegram arrived, I let the paper fall,
watched it dissolve into the wet gravel.
Thudding to the ground, I longed to touch his face, just one last time.
Rain pounded against my skin, blurring the lines between us.
Then, through the howling rain, a small voice cried out,
Sheilah’s light piercing the darkness.
So I rose again, like so many women before me
Because babies need holding, need feeding,
Even those – especially those – who’ve just lost their father,
Having met him only once.