Old dogs

I wasn’t sure I would remember the house
an old photograph was all I had to go on,
self seeded plants softened the cracked paving slabs
but the driveway was still black and white.

Uncle Arthur’s skeleton opened the door,
his face was gouged like sculptors clay
thin lines under cheek bones
and thumbed deep into eye sockets.

The meniscus of old age had bottled his vision
but he still had a Whiskey gruffness in his voice
that reminded me of forgotten songs and pearl inlays,
each one made to fit the only three chords he could play.

Pyjamas protruded from under his clothes
as he moved around the room to his chair,
touching each ledge like a child learning to walk,
stroke is such a gentle word.
The room had kept hold of its memory,
veneered in dust and damp that crept up from the carpet
slowly making it hard to see, hard to remember.

He spoke in bursts, bending each exhaled breath
to make the sounds.
One word at time he told me
how much he missed my mum.
“She
was
my
baby
sister”
I know I said and took his hand.
His old Jack Russell
lifted its head to sniff the air.
“He’s
farted
again”
I know I said,
and let go of his hand
as the room helped us both
to forget.