Uncle Hans

Some things were forgotten:
(His laugh, for example.
His voice when he said my name, and
The colour of his right eye was different, but
Which was blue? Which green?)
Answers that were thrown to the wind.

But other things still stand stark:
Those summers in Berlin.
His garage well kept, out in the suburbs,
Ongoing projects in every corner, and
The garden tended by his familiar hand, his loyal companion.
After lunchtime, him bringing down paints, and
Us choosing which ones, perhaps blue or orange,
To make a mess of the back wall, or
Perhaps to paint signs for his flower beds. His cool contentment.
How he would fetch us different brushes, or
Smooth out our artwork, like the lizard he perfected.
After packing, when the cars were loaded up, and
I would sit outside enjoying his bunting, his compost heap,
The weather beginning to turn, and
He would come and stroke my hair, smile at my asking,
May you visit us soon? When will we see you again?
Questions that still catch in my throat.