I never knew when you left me,

Was it the Tuesday that poured with rain?

Maybe the Wednesday we watched cricket.

I didn’t think it would happen at first,

We were inseparable, all those memories and stories we made.

But I’ll always remember the last words you said to me:

Don’t call me that! I’m not your granddad, love. 

All those years together had disappeared,

I wasn’t your little solider anymore.

We had become strangers to each other,

Was it this moment, I ask, that it had stolen you from me?


Why are making memories important?

I tend to put a lot of emphasis on making memories, especially of late. It could be said that life is fleeting, and all we really collect is memories we store in jars in our soul. Money, objects and sometimes people can be so temporary. A story or a memory can be somewhat permanent. I remember running through trees, having a secret hideaway, concerts, dates and laughing till I cried. It sounds so poetic that a part of me would love it to be this realisation that sparked my curiosity, but it wasn’t.

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2019, My Carpe Diem.

At the start of last year, I wrote about resolutions being a blank slate to start our year on. It is a tradition that my family and friends participate in, and yet one that has made me think where I stand with it. Is it outdated and impossible in creating change or could it be something that generates real personal growth? As a new year starts anew, I begin thinking about it once more. What does it offer me this year? If it is like the last, I hope it one filled with excitement and many more happy memories.

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It’s me, your little soldier.
I know it’s been a while since we talked.
Do you still remember me? I know I’ve changed a lot.
Wish you were here, I miss your voice, well, I miss you full stop.
You always knew what to say to make me smile,
But I did it, I graduated, and I hope you were watching,
You’d have been so proud of me, I became a writer, just like I promised.


This piece is in memory of my granddad, who was my biggest supporter when it came to my career as a writer. He encouraged me to go to university as he had always been a big supporter of my work. My biggest regret was that I never told him I’d graduated as he passed in 2016 shortly before I finished my degree.

I am writing this in support of #ArtTheBestMedicine movement that is raising awareness of art for people living with dementia. My granddad was one of the many sufferers diagnosed with a form of dementia and I hope that with this poem will not only do him justice but make others aware of the condition.