The trail begins with simple grace, Jumanji Woman stands in awe. She doesn’t know the pitfalls she’ll face, Only what came before. The trials and challenges that come her way, Are like her mother’s strife. And her mother’s mother who led the way, So, she could live her life.
She never smiled at him the way she smiled at the old paper bauble. Made by grubby little hands that stole her heart away. Carefully preserved in its box, it still had glitter stuck to it. The bitter old man closed his hand and crushed the precious gift. No more grubby little hands, no more tender heart. She was gone and they were all grown. He didn’t care then. They don’t care now.
You know you’re nearly home when you see The Monument.
It wasn’t just any monument. It was always our monument. The stories of the lord and the song about the worm didn’t matter. It was ours. Our name was on it. It was etched in stone over a hundred years ago. Did he ever imagine what sort of legacy he was leaving behind? Did he know that we’d all look up and think of him? He must have been a right scallywag to carve his name there. How many of us have stood there and pressed our hands to his name? There are so many of us now, grand children and great grandchildren and more besides. All bound together and set in stone.