Garlic

Garlic bulbs in the bowl on the shelf
In the cupboard
I’ll never put you on a shelf
In a cupboard
Never close the door on you

 

Bapcia passed away last week.

I’ve been keeping busy and getting my head down since then, because keeping my mind occupied helps.

Unexpectedly I came across a poem I’d written on a whim last summer, probably after I’d just been to visit her. Two years ago, both her and Dziadek moved down to Newton Abbott in Devon to a special care home. When my aunt and uncle were clearing the house to sell it afterwards, I took a few things from the house, one most notably was the bowl Bapcia kept her garlic in.

It’s one of those smells which has always and will always remind me of her, mostly because she cooked with it so much.

The quality of the small poem above might not be great. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. It’s just there.

See you around, Bapcia. ❤

 

 

NB: “Bapcia” and “Dziadek” are the Polish words for “Grandma” and “Grandpa”.