The husk is the same,
But deep down in the shell,
Is there anyone there?
I don’t know;
I can’t tell.
Leather faced lady,
Layer upon layer,
Of grey skin,
Hair wispy and thin,
But who is within?
Lost luggage for memory,
Who will I be?
Brother or neighbour,
Or absolute stranger?
How did you find me here?
Seemingly randomly dialling the past,
While the second hand crawls round the face of the clock,
Dutifully visiting but climbing the walls,
Looking for the embers or the essence of her,
The husk is the same, is that all that remains?
Wrote this a while back… my mother is 87 and lives in a nursing home where she is well cared for.
My mother’s day is a re-run of a number of various scenarios where she is on a train, on a cruise ship, or in a hotel. I can be various people from her past, but never myself; but the thing that cracks me up is the fact that she almost always says “how did you find me here?”
We visited again today, it being Mothers Day in the UK; we had a nice time, talking as strangers. She enjoys the company of the kids which is great, and babies always make old people smile.
This isn’t a cheap attempt to make people cry, or make people feel sad, just an attempt at expressing the mixture of feelings that visiting my mother conjures up…