Sometimes, I’ll read or hear something that takes root in my head. Maybe a week ago, Sam Neill — yes, that Sam Neill — posted a video on Twitter about his Gran. Several times during the 2 minute video, he called her “a lovely old thing” as he talked about how blessed he was to have lived with her briefly when he was about 7 years old. This poem is about my “lovely old thing,” my paternal grandmother, Myrtle, who died when I was 17.

She Was a Lovely Old Thing

She never walked when she could
Stomp or glide or march, mowing down
Every obstacle, physical or mental
No doubt or hesitation, ever 
Stayed her hand or her feet 
Or her voice 

If there was music she was dancing
And when there was silence she was still dancing
Though you probably wouldn’t know why and
She wouldn’t tell you because 
Your opinion didn’t matter and  
She would even say that if you asked

When she walked in the room
People sat up straighter and
Waved, even if she wasn’t looking
And if she stopped beside you and
Put her hand on your shoulder
You knew what a blessing was

So far as I know 
She was never afraid of anything
Though of course she was 
But she would never, ever let it 
Change her or alter how
We were allowed to see her 

She lived fiercely and when she got sick
I didn’t know what that meant and
Then, when she died 
The sun fell out of the sky
And I finally understood 
What she’d been saying all along