A poem of old remembrances as we enter June, the month of the Sacred Heart:
Sacred Heart
I remember still,
with the sharp light
of a child's knowing of newness,
my Gran's bedroom.
Spartan, yet equipped with things
of a quality we do not have
in many places now.
Long used.
Loved.
Meant to last.
Her carved bed seemed enormous to us
as we flung ourselves onto its satin spread,
sliding across it to thump,
giggling,
on the hard floor.
A mirror, a brush, a comb, all laid out
upon the dresser as carefully
as a surgeon's tools,
heavy and cold to the touch,
but glowing with the warm barley sugar
inner light of polished tortoise shell.
An old clock that worked, sometimes,
its numerals glowing in the dark
a faded ghost green.
And there, upon the dresser too
he stood, in stone stillness.
Flaking slightly, but still royal
in his red robe, revealing the love
that is at the heart of all things.
He seemed huge to my small hands.
I would climb onto the bed beside her
as she whispered her prayers
in his direction;
she would hand him to me then
and he would sit comfortably
upon my knees,
as I, entranced, traced the thorns
entwining his poor heart,
and tried to pull them out;
feeling his heart a flame,
a fire for me, for her, for all!
I would whisper to him then,
my childish news and secrets
and I remember (can you believe it?)
sometimes, he whispered back
words of such love
they exist now only as
scattered shards of light
within my own heart's memories.
There and then I promised, I would
one day, pull out those thorns.
Gran smiled when I told her this
"Maybe you will", she said toothlessly,
the liturgy of dentures coming after prayers
in the morning's ritual,
"But maybe you'll put another thorn or two
in there too;
don't worry, we all do from time to time,
but never forget He loves you still!" she said,
smiling sadly at my stricken face.
Then I kissed him hard, as children do,
and made the foolish promise
of a child to ease his heart a little.
A promise I confess I have yet to fulfil,
though no shortage of thorns
have I added to his crown.
Devotions done she restored him to his place
upon the dresser,
and I, sliding off the bed,
now thought only of the day before us:
of buses into town, bookshops,
and Bewley's cafe!
Then we went downstairs
to breakfast on tea and toast,
always, me going first,
she coming behind,
her breath,
her voice as one,
whistling upon each step,
the background music
of her life;
"Sacred Heart of Jesus,
I place all my trust
in Thee."
