Shopping for Gran

She'd recite each shopping list
several times, like a psalm, sure
we'd forget.  She didn't know
about our system: each of us
remembering a snippet
to recite at the shop-counter,
our chins resting greasy
on the glass.

Amy was youngest, and
would remember two things: one
for each sticky palm, each
teddy-bear earring, each bitten thumb.
Helen (who was prone to forgetting)
would sing with each trailing step
her single syllables:
bread, milk, eggs, ham.

Because I was the oldest, my task
was to carry the crochet clutch-purse
we coveted, to cling to the counter
and ask for twenty Benson and Hedges,
please, and count the change.  Later,
while the other two
climbed trees outside or crept upstairs
to pilfer perfume, I'd contemplate
this magic packet, its contents.

It was nothing, surely - no heavier
than a breath, and not even the size
of a cassette tape.  And yet, so black
and potent, so terrible
a secret - so like a tiny coffin
in the pocket of my coat.


Claire Askew

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