Solace via Shakespeare in Gratitude for My Grandi

Hello my lovely readers

It's been a while (and it's likely to be a while again after this post) but I'm back briefly, having worked hard to find my words. And it feels apt that I'm back today, for two reasons. My last entry, on the last day of last year, was about being back in Canada to visit with my Grandi and Gramma and written, in large part, in gratitude for all the things I associate with both the country and them. This post finds me once again on the other side of the Atlantic, where this weekend we gathered as a family from across the globe to honour the memory of that wonderful man, father and grandfather.

So a sad but significant coincidence, and one which makes me smile. Not least because my contribution to the celebration of his life was a sonnet, and that leads to a further coincidence. Today is the first day I've felt confident enough to write this blog post - and it also happens to be Shakespeare's birthday. I guess it's apt, then, that I may combine in it a homage to two of my great loves, who have both taught me much I treasure. I'm grateful to the bard for giving me the structure (by way of Petrarch) in which I so often seek solace when struggling, and I'm forever grateful to my Grandi for so much of the wisdom which makes up my life's philosophy.

I'm not quite up to my usual standards again yet, so I'll sign off now, and leave poetry to plug the gaps of my prose. Here is my sonnet - a fusion of my three familial cultures (written in the style of a British playwright, about a man from South Africa who lived in Swaziland, and spoken in Canada) that pairs the old with the new and finds gratitude amidst grief:

This sonnet is an ode to dearest Grandi,

who guided my life from its youngest years

to adulthood (with whisky or a brandy)*

and held me when I laughed, or cried hot tears.

But what I feel most, now, is huge thanks,

for all the wondrous moments that we spent

that I may store, secured, in Memory’s banks;

a testament to just how much you meant.

I’m sorry that you never got to ride

your wish in later life (a chair like mine!)

but please know, as I zoom, you’re in my mind;

I promise to ‘keep smiling’, rain or shine.

I’m so sad I must tell you ‘hamba kahle’** –

I’ll try and live the lessons that you taught me.

*He was responsible for my love of

**Zulu for 'go well' - an affectionate goodbye