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
