…London

things will never be the same,

when someone dies that’s it, there is no more conversation with them, no more time with them, only places that you remember going, drinks you remember them drinking, phrases you remember them saying, their face stays with you for awhile but after a few years you forget and their voice goes but sometimes you will hear little bits, like for my Granddad i hear him saying ‘Lil’ in his London accent, and I can still visually see his leather jacket. some of these things are nice things to remember but it is hard sometimes to see that, that person is gone forever and in your world in your life, that was pretty fucking significant, my Granddad was like a parent to me. times where i was struggling he would take me to get food, he would slip me a tenner, he would make sure me and my daughter had a day out if that was what was needed. he was there for me and i tried to be there for him, best i could.

things will never be the same,

and that’s Ok, people blame themselves for a lot of things they never had any control over and i had no control over anything that happend to him.  he taught me many things, like to try and enjoy a can of coke in East park, to appreciate going out when the weather is murky. to laugh at things that other people couldn’t find any laughter in, like the funny looking bloke on the front of the telegraph newspaper pointing and shouting in the house of commons, “they haven’t got a clue whats going on”.

“Money” he would say its always about “Money!”

he hated the word bloody, like bloody heck, you couldn’t say that, yet he would always say when we was out shopping “all they want is me bloody money”. he was a flirt but in a nice way, he had a good understanding of if someone was fed up. yet, he was such a lonely person he lived on his own for a long time, he refused to leave the family home he married in and raised two daughters, he worked in a factory off Hessle Road making figures for board games and Petter Rabbit cards, such a soft soul and nature. then to see him be mistreated so awfully when he was towards the end of his life was just torture, all i could do was sit and turn up. watch him struggle with food, unable to walk unable to be funny. nothing was funny anymore, he didn’t even know who i was, i was just a girl who looked a little bit like a nurse. not his Granddaughter he pushed on a Pearson Park swing. yet my family held so much i never knew about him and i still don’t know and still learning… he recorded voice notes, he wrote messages, he wrote letters, he had friends somewhere out there that no one looked for, he had photographs of being a young man being a normal young London man, yet there are so many things I yet to learn. so many thing i will never know, things that wont ever be the same.

4 thoughts on “…London

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