GUILT

Mum

THE new day dawns

She gently comes to

At rest on her back

Thinks 'What shall I do?'

IT'S the same as yesterday

Yesterday's game

The days carry on

but the game doesn't change

Where IS her son?

He's so busy and far.

If only he'd ring,

Just get in his car

SHE picks up her book;

It's stuck on the page

Where she folded it back

but her bladder is screaming, though no energy comes

She lies there, exhausted, and gives up.

IT'S cold when she moves.

A drink would be nice.

She heaves herself up,

Winces and aches

and creaks in her joints as she rolls to the side.

Her feet find her shoes, old, flattened and worn,

slips into a gown

and looks to her stick.

She makes a step

and lurches another;

the bathroom's so far

but the kitchen is further.

Sharp shooting joints groan at each staggered step

but she pushes on through,

her grimace a mask set firm on her face;

her relief when she finally gets to the sink,

a gasp and a sigh as she catches her breath

and she picks last night's cup from the washing-up bowl.

The kettle is heavy as she turns off the tap

and she aims for the pad where it sits to connect.

Her old tea tin, worn, and rust she can't see;

a link with the past. A link with me.

AND now, in my kitchen, I reach for the tea;

That ancient tin beckons,

it still speaks to me.

The things that you left,

That can't be let go,

Hang 'round my neck.

...I miss you so.