A Souvenir of Shakespeare
In a bay window, at a dark oak table, my grandfather sits after breakfast, in a room that smells faintly of pepper when the sun shines in and warms the white table-cloth. My grandmothers green breasted budgie repeats and repeats good morning as he gazes at himself in a tiny mirror. A laburnum branch taps on the window, glossy dark stem and yellow flowers.
The smell of bacon and egg lingers as my grandfather puts on his glasses and reaches for the newspaper. By his hand sits a heavy glass oval ashtray and under the glass, in the centre, a face gazes out, oval too, bearded, in sepia. The ashtray is always there and never used. Age four or five I ask,
‘Who is that man?’’
‘’That’s Old Will,’’ says my Grand-dad, as if it’s his best mate he rubs shoulders with often.
‘’Who is Old Will?’’ I ask, because I enjoy a story and I like to keep my Grand-dad talking to me.
‘’William Shakespeare, the worlds greatest Bard,’’ says my Grand-dad.
‘’What’s a Bard?’’
‘’He wrote wonderful plays for the theatre and poems and he told about all the things people think and feel and do and why.’’
‘’What did he say?’’ I ask, impressed because that sounded very clever.
‘’Oh, lots of things,’’ says my Grand-dad with a smile.
‘’But what things?’’
‘’All the world’s a stage and we but players on it, a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, to sleep perchance to dream, to be or not to be that’s the question.’’
‘’To be or not to be what?’’ I ask, falling into my Grand-dads well laid trap.
‘’Well that’s the question, isn’t it’’ he says with a grin. ‘’Now go out and play and let me read my paper.’’
To be, to not be.
How can we ever not be?
Would we be again?
To be or not to.
Was I not before now then?
What if I wasn’t?
Being, not being?
Do they feel very different?
Could I switch between?
My head starts to hurt.
I think I am glad I am
here, now, being.
I run out to the garden to play.
