'Out of the Box' by Jennifer Watts

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.