My Grandad died.
I only saw him last week.
The doctor said he was getting better.
His newspaper is still open on the table,
and the air still smells of his pipe tobacco.
It’s as if he’s just gone out of the room.
He’ll be back soon.
He was supposed to watch me grow up,
and go to university;
be at my wedding;
be Great-Grandad to my children.
I hate him for leaving us.
I was supposed to visit him the day he died,
but I was too busy.
If I’d gone, maybe I could have saved him.
Dad keeps crying.
He’s never cried before.
I don’t know what to do.
Mum just stares into space,
I want to talk to my Grandad about it.
But I can’t.