Walking Stick
….
“I’ve polished up your stick.”
“It was your dad’s – remember?
…. that first date with mum?
when you were just back from National Service?
…. and grandad followed you to the Troxy?”
I pause to see if he remembers why he’s kept the stick all his life.
Why, all dusty, grey and rubber-end cracked as a dog’s dry nose,
it was his favourite.
…. “Grandad sat four rows behind and prodded you with it
all through the film. He offered you sweets and an orange?
…. But mum fell for you anyway”
I leave time for the story to sink in, the way I’d left the wax to soak into the wood
– pale and naked when stripped of its dark varnish. I’d scoured it with wire wool,
working to bring back the memory in the grain.
Caroline Smith lives in London. She studied sculpture at Goldsmiths College, London University. Her poetry book, ‘The Immigration Handbook’ was published by Seren and shortlisted for the 2016 Ted Hughes Award. It was translated into Italian in 2020. Smith won first prize in the 2023 East Ridge Review poetry contest.