upon your body
from a young age;
your little knees
torn and scratched from playing football
on the gravel ground,
bled the pain and carried the scars
of your mother’s life –
gone, at such a young age.
Your father carried you as best he could
dressing you each day in your school uniform:
knee high Campbell tartan socks,
khaki shorts, plaid tie,
button down shirt with grey corduroy jacket.
Your grandmother doted upon you,
missing her dear girl,
tempting you with sweets, caramels and toffee
from her candy shop on the corner of McLellan and Tyne.
Your knees bore your body as you grew,
surgeries after rough football matches,
twists and tendons breaking
as you attempted to glide down the slopes of the mountain
landing in a heap,
and in pain.
your knees recovered softly and gently
bumping me up and down to the melody,
‘You take the high road and I’ll take the low road,
and I’ll be in Scotland a’fore ye,’
I remember your knees:
ragged and gnarled,
rough and smooth,
worn and tired from the journey,
yet never giving up.
I watched with glee as you went down
upon your knee,
your grandson, Nate, riding high upon your back.
‘Giddyup Shenner, giddyup,
faster, faster you slow horse!’
a smile across your face
as you glanced up at me,
and I knew healing had come to your knees.
In loving memory of my Dad, James (Jimmy) C. Heaney. Oct. 8, 1932 – Feb. 23, 2007