AC ‘Who are you?’
She asks
Perfectly seriously
I stare, taken aback;
My lower lip trembles,
The words I utter
Emerge a hoarse,
Scared whisper
‘It’s me,’ I say, my tone
One of disbelief
‘Who are you?’
The words hit me
Like a punch to my stomach,
‘It’s me,’ I exclaim, ‘me!’
‘Who sent you?’
‘Why are you in my house?’
The frail little voice demands.
The shrinking woman
Stares up at me,
Her eyes vacant
Of any recognition
I stagger backwards,
Incredulousness
Purging my body,
Knifing my soul
I rush to the bookshelf
Finger the photo album,
Oblong, navy, dusty,
Flick it open
To a recent family photograph
Gently, I sit myself
Down beside her,
Confusion and forget
Gripping the old grey cells
Of her mind
‘See: this is you,’ I say,
‘And this is me.’
I point to the two small figures,
Frozen in time,
Sat, side-by-side,
The first a girl, smiling,
The sun radiating off
Her youthful face.
Next to her sits a Woman
Of many years,
Crowned with the testimony
Of wispy grey hair
I pull my gaze
From the photograph.
Look to the woman
Sat, so quietly, so innocently,
Beside me
She gazes up at me with eyes
Full of spirit, full of knowing.
She beams, says,
‘Why are you showing me this,
Darling?’
