thumb
My Granddad died when I was two; I do not remember him much. I am told I would sit on his knee and try to twist his thumb around and that he would let me and pretend it caused him pain. All to make me laugh. My mother says my sense of humour comes from him.
Sometimes in the gaps of thought, I can feel my Granddad's knee hard beneath me; his too large thumb grasped in my two small hands as I try to bend it back.
I can feel the resistance of his thumb, my determination and youth against his strength and age. A sudden moment of triumph and amusement, unfairly won but freely given.
I do not know if this is a true memory or something I have created from the story my mother tells me. But it is my only memory of him, and so I cling to it, with something that feels like love.