I watched as my seven-year-old daughter carefully pressed

the dirt around the small plant her grandfather had given her

She spent hours choosing the right spot in our back garden

Job done, she sat, turning something over in her hands

Calling her for a glass of orange, I asked what she had found

She opened her hand and there lay a tiny bone

That looked like a child’s finger

I remembered the stories my grandmother had told

My father said they were nothing but lies

No more than the evil imaginings of an evil old woman

I cannot deny my grandmother often went into a daze

I had no desire to collude against the truth

To find the stories were more than smoke and mirrors

That a child had been buried where my daughter had been digging.

It would take a fair bit of grift to saw my way through the roots

Of the large oak tree that stood where my daughter had knelt

My husband agreed to help, rather than look foolish

Taking the bone to the police station

It turned out the bones we found belonged to my family

Which made me wonder about the other stories’ gran told

Turns out she wasn’t as daft as they would have me believe.

If she were here now, she would say she held the trump card

I told you that one day the bones would return…

©anitadawes