Silver & Cement

The snow fell silently in the garden of the bungalow, far away. The little boy lie on his front, on the old long haired rug, in front of the gas fire. He listened, transfixed, as the old man told one of his tales from another time.

He would describe places he was sent. Amazing giant cat men and royal graves adorned with gold and fine paint.

Somewhere in a far away land.

Hidden languages and signals. Radios and motorbikes, hushed missions in the dead of night.

Bruising tales of digging deep and finding resolve, skill and reflex, slip then counter, sporting glory, staying humble.

How he taught the newer generation. Coaching and encouraging, developing skills, giving them opportunities he dug out.

There were little silver men and medals on the shelves above the rug, tributes to skills and proud moments.

Sometimes he would point to one, a little twinkle in his eye and the hint of a smile, and tell its story.

The silver men and medals are on shelves behind glass now, preserved for many to see. Nothing fancy, just history in the corner of a room, where people shuffle by.

But the stories behind them, the essence that gives them their true meaning and value, are kept in only one remaining place. It carefully carries the light, so their sparkle and shine remains untarnished.

My mind.

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Note:

Not bad for a boy from the cement works, they said.

For my Grandad, never forgotten and forever loved.