My teddy bear, Jack, is named after my Grandad. He bought it for me on the day I was born. Grandad emigrated to South Africa for a while. He risked everything to find a new life.
Teddy Jack’s blonde fur
is the Cape Town Sandy earth
under Grandad’s boots.
Teddy Jack’s small nose
is the Cape of Good Hope or
new Cape Point lighthouse.
I remember bits and pieces about Grandad. The audit or dissection of genetics comes to mind. Pondering the flow of memory. The spiritual linkages between our generations. His old age.
Grandad Jack’s wool hat
is the symbol for closeness.
A heat in the cold.
Grandad Jack’s beetroot
turns his mouth a redder shade
at Sunday mealtimes.
Both Jacks keep each other alive. I swell in the heats of formation that develop as feelings between the human sides of our triangle warm up…like knowing someone one step at a time.
Teddy Jack’s frayed limbs
are frayed because they straddle
time that won’t come back.
Grandad Jack’s large feet
are the forerunners of mine.
Taking bolder steps.
Bolder steps of acquaintance are taken as we walk up Table Mountain. Both Jacks and I walking in a dream. A dream that is awash with my favourite colours. A dream to love.