Gran

On the morning of her weekly day out
with her grandson
she’s always waiting in the window,
dressed in hat and coat,
clutching her handbag,
expectant grin on her face,
the memory of last week’s trip
long gone.

Where was it they went?
Into town? To the seaside?
What did they eat?
Fish and chips?
Tea and a scone?

He’s a good lad.
Did she pay?
Her treat?
She must pay her way.
Give him some petrol money.
She’ll insist.

On the days she gets it wrong
she stands there most of the morning.
She emerges, disappointed, from a daze,
her stomach telling her
that it must be past lunchtime.

Today can’t be the day.
Perhaps he came yesterday.
Did he?

She must eat something.
What shall she eat?