Sheila's Dribs 'n Drabs

Remember the child There he is now, but why? He’s your son There he is. How’d he grow up so high? She remembers Maybe Smiles. With thanks for memories

Sharp-edged Taste copper blood in coppered leaves And feel the grit of bones ground down to dust. They ask why scent brings back such memories It must                                             While silken rose-petals Release their sun-fed rain.                    This pain                                             These memories taste bad Opens her eyes, forgets, remembers, he  Says “Come home Mom.”

The old man lay in bed, young man by his side. “What you done with my wife?” “Nothing Grandpa. I came to see you for Father’s Day.” “Whose father? What you done with my son?” “Nothing Grandpa. I came to say hi.” “How high?” “High as heaven and loving you.”

In dreams, she flies through times gone by. Remember when… her child comes to her bed; she pats his head. In dreams child smiles and she’s at peace. Nurse leaves the room. “She’s good today.” Son visits and she dreams her spouse, sets table in their house. “She smiled today.”

Looking for her in the fields evergreen in the leaves going brown in the gray olden town in the way that you frown at me. Looking for you under memories of words That you say. You’re not her See you’re looking for me but she’s gone and the memory fades. Giving thanks for memory

When Mom died; that’s when the trouble started, though perhaps it had always been there. Tom grew older while his Dad grew young, until the friend that was fun and forgetful and silly had all but disappeared: Sad and fretful and angry; bad and wetting the bed; mad and setting his son’s life on end. “Milk in fridge. Switch off cooker.” Mom’s old tradition of notes left round the house acquired new meaning now that Dad couldn’t read. Tom stared at the number and agreed, he needed help. But could he ask? Love and trouble; memories; it’s hard letting go.