Elizabeth Jennings(1926–2001)
My Grandmother
S h e k e p t a n a n t i q u e s h o p — o r i t k e p t h e r .
A m o n g A p o s t l e s p o o n s a n d Bristol glass,1
T h e f a d e d silks, t h e h e a v y f u r n i t u r e ,
She watched her own reflection in the brass
Salvers 0 and silver bowls, as if to proveround trays
Polish was all, there was no need of love.
A n d I r e m e m b e r h o w I o n c e r e f u s e d
T o g o o u t w i t h h e r , s i n c e I w a s a f r a i d .
I t w a s p e r h a p s a w i s h n o t t o b e u s e d
Like antique objects. Though she never said
That she was hurt, I still could feel the guilt
O f t h a t r e f u s a l , g u e s s i n g h o w s h e felt.
L a t e r , t o o frail t o k e e p a s h o p , s h e p u t
All h e r b e s t t h i n g s i n o n e l o n g n a r r o w r o o m .
The place smelt old, of things too long kept shut,
The smell of absences where shadows come
That can't be polished. There was nothing then
To give her own reflection back again.
A n d w h e n s h e d i e d I felt no grief at all,
O n l y t h e guilt of w h a t I o n c e r e f u s e d .
I w a l k e d i n t o h e r r o o m a m o n g t h e tall
Sideboards and cupboards—things she never used
But needed: and no finger-marks were there,
Only the new dust falling through the air.