Grandpa fits in a small wooden box. So says Mum.
She traces her hand along its polished top and says “Hello.”
Winks at me. “One day he might reply.”
“He’s not there,” I say, knowingly. She kisses my forehead.
At night, Grandpa sits with me.
“Sorry,” he says. “Old ticker gave out.”
He tells me his stories and everything an 8-year-old boy should know.
“Mum thinks you’re in that box.”
“Nonsense! Look for me in the sky.”
Every morning, I search a big sky for telling cottonwool shapes, synchronised feathered flocks, spectral signs.
I see him everywhere.
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