Grandfather

I sat opposite my grandfather eating a Christmas dinner in a pub. The whole family were there, three generations of religious upbringing and rebellion. My grandfather never rebelled. I heard on the grapevine my grandmother once thought of rebelling back in ’83. But she never did. Her marriage was listed by the National Trust and her place was by my grandfather’s side. The immovability of his morals held every part of his being in a strict structure. None of what I had could ever match what was sure and solid in him. I move like a kaleidoscope. Nothing is ever fixed in me.

He smiled and talked the conversation that been the same all my life. I wanted drama. I wanted to know what he feels. Somewhere, I saw in the space between his eyes that he did indeed feel. He felt deeply. And that reassured me. I felt affection for the creases around his eyes. The only place that was still spontaneous. He lit up, animated as we talked about the Bible. It made my latest foray into religion all worthwhile. For me, it was never more than an outlet for my self pity and desperation. But for him, he didn’t live his life by the Bible. It was his life. My grandfather’s life can be found in the footnotes of Cruden’s Complete Concordance. We talked of the Old Testament Prophets (my favorite characters, the men who raged and divined in desert madness, the souls who spoke damnation and religious ecstasy, I had always imaged their eyes burning with pearlescent light, two circles in a mess of dreadlocks facial hair, eyes that had seen the divine and lived to tell about it). My affection for the man who introduced me to the great stories lead me to ask him earnest Biblical questions which he answered with great pleasure. My grandfather reads the entire Bible cover to cover every year.

During this conversation a mischievous thought wound its way into my head around a book in the Bible called The Song of Songs, one of the greatest erotic poems in history which is found in the Old Testament. In the middle of this affectionate intercourse I said,

‘and what about the Song of Songs? That’s a bit racy isn’t it?’

He the creases around his eyes tremored slightly, caught of guard by this unexpected test of his well weathered thinking.

He looked like he was going to cry.

‘yes, it is’

He said to the table cloth.