Out of reach
There is no language for us any more.
All those words that you knew,
That you hunted for crosswords,
They’re quiet and scarce,
And I’m totally clueless
And I look at the photos,
And I hear all the funny old ways,
And I feel like I can touch your skin
But I can’t.
RF
There’s a lot I could say about what’s going on around us
right now (about governments, about people’s behaviour, about fear and bravery
and everything in between). But I’m tired (aren’t you?). And there are lots of
people saying lots of things already so all my stuff can wait.
It’s Mother’s Day here (for another hour or so) so the above is
a poem I wrote after my Mum died in 2010 at the age of 86. I grieved for her for quite a few
years but now she feels very distant (like a story almost). Today, instead of
thinking about her particularly, I received Mother’s Day gifts from a precious
daughter, finished reading a good book, drank cups of tea and coffee, did a
crossword (joint effort), walked a dog, did a little gardening, watched some
TV, enjoyed my food, even drank a sherry. So, all in all, I pretty much was my
mother for a day. And it was a good day. I am always pretty efficient at appreciating
the small things (a good breakdown and recovery can do that to a person) but
today and all the days just now I am better at it than ever. For many reasons,
but partly because my father was a doctor, I can’t help but think about the medical
staff just now. We take them for granted too often. We reward so many of the
wrong people.
Anyway, let’s not get into that right now. Take care. Enjoy the
small things when you can. And share them.
x
