My Grannie was born in 1910 in Scotland and was quietly amazing.
This photo is the opposite to who she was to me. Dressed up and posing on a holiday to Calgary before I was born!

When I’m old
I won’t wear a peeny
with a box of bluebell matches in the pocket
for burning rubbish in the midden.

My knees won’t be sore
from pedalling between two churches
to play the organ on a Sunday.

I might wink at my grandchildren
as I turn off my hearing aid for a bit of peace and quiet

My twisted hands may deftly peel the tatties
with a string handled peeler
I won’t have rooms in my house
known as the parlour and the milkhouse
my carpets will go all the way to the wall in the hallway.

There’s a good chance I’ll get words for things mixed up,
describe the dog as awfy wide
and nod and smile in silent cahoots with small children
who still adore me when my speech is gone.

I might serve a full cooked breakfast on a Sunday
with a roast dinner an hour later,
ignoring all protests about not needing another slice of bacon.

I might wear overnight curlers
but they won’t be pink foam and hard plastic
I won’t use my pills to keep my stockings attached to my girdle.

There’s every chance I’ll get up early
to cook porridge for the dog’s breakfast
on cold winter mornings.
But my dog won’t sleep in a pile
of setters and Dobermans outside in the byre.

I won’t buy my groceries from a mobile van
and I don’t even know where to get Dutch Crispbakes
in their waxed orange wrapper.

Its not looking likely that my friends will keep peacocks
as pets to be traumatised by grandchildren
in search of a show,
delighted by found feathers.

If I have family to visit I will stand
on my doorstep and wave as they leave
until they round the corner on their way home.

I didn’t have my wedding in my parlour,
nor shall I have my funeral.
I will never have to endure the Crichton
and visits from people whose relationships to me are shifting and confusing.

I hope someone will think of me one day
with memories of quiet, unshakeable love.
Unexpressed but undeniable.