Sometimes, the stories we carry from our own childhoods are a tangled mix of light and shadow. When my young kids asked me to share my earliest memories, I found myself walking a delicate line — wanting to protect their innocence while honouring the truth of my past. This poem is a glimpse into those first flickers of memory: moments of fear, comfort, and love, shaped by the presence of my Dad especially, whose gentle strength still lights my way. It’s a tender reminder of how even the smallest memories can hold deep meaning, and how sharing them can bridge generations, even when someone we love is no longer here.
Poem: Whispers from Childhood — Memories Told to My Children
Little hands tug at my sleeve,
“Tell us, Mum, what was it like
when you were small, before us all—
tell us your stories now?”
Before I could read, before I could write,
in a house I barely remember,
my first memories flicker—
soft and sharp as splinters.
I remember the fridge door’s heavy sigh,
the cold, golden butter—
her hands guiding mine,
the forbidden taste melting on my tongue.
Then footsteps—my sister’s gasp,
the butter tub pressed into my hands,
my heart thumping,
my mind blank with fear.
Mum’s shadow in the doorway—
what happened next, I don’t know,
only the terror,
the hush that swallowed the kitchen whole.
Another night,
new car set in my little room,
wheels spinning,
my voice a happy engine—
“Broom broom!”
The world was mine,
until the door creaked open,
and my heart leapt to my throat—
Was it her?
She’d be angry!
But it was Dad,
soft-eyed in the darkness,
his presence a gentle hush,
relief flooding me,
safe in the warmth of his glow and the gentle whisper, “It’s bedtime.”
Those earliest memories—
a mix of fear and comfort,
the taste of butter,
the sound of toy wheels,
the difference between the footsteps
that made me freeze
and the ones that let me breathe.
I sift the years, the shadows deep,
some tales too sharp for tender ears,
so I gather the sunlit fragments,
the ones where my Dad appears.
I tell them how I thought I’d failed,
that driving test, nerves all a-twist,
how I sobbed so hard, the examiner smiled,
“Never seen tears like this.”
How I planned to fool your Grandad—
“I failed!” I’d say, all gloom—
but my grin burst out, and he just laughed,
and pride filled up the room.
I tell them of Valentine’s at Uni,
when Dad came just to see me,
a business trip, a meal with friends,
his eyes so bright and easy.
He talked of jobs and heart attacks,
his voice both strong and mild—
I didn’t know, I couldn’t know,
how little time remained, my child.
I tell them of exams retaken,
how I failed, then soared to A’s,
how Dad came to collect me,
his face a sunlit blaze.
He said he’d never seen a smile
so wide, so full, so free—
“I’m glad I was the one,” he said,
“to see you happy, just to be.”
I cry as I recount these things—
they do not know what’s lost,
the Grandad who would love them so,
the warmth that’s now the cost.
They miss him without knowing,
his laughter, hugs, his pride—
and I miss him for all of us,
the tears I cannot hide.
So I give them what I can,
the gentle, golden parts,
and hope my Dad lives on for them
inside their beating hearts.
Gentle Parent 