Hand

When somewhat longer than a year ago I visited him in hospital, I held his bony hand in my hand.
The hand that had held me so often, now lay vulnerably on the hospital sheet.
I still miss it, his hand, his joy when he saw or heard us, his true concern, his happiness because of our happiness, his almost natural presence.
Still my eyes get wet when I think of those autumn days of last year, still I get weak when I think of my brother's farewell words: 'Goodbye granddad. Have a safe journey home.'