Get Published on Female First

Get Published on Female First

I have picture albums full

Of mum sitting in her armchair

The chair and mum have changed

Slightly over the years with

Different fads and fashions.

Together they have moved round

The room until they have come full circle, 

Now mum has her back to the window.

 

Mum’s armchair was always slightly

Posher than the other chairs, like

A grand Aunt next to poor relations.

One rocked, one swivelled, one reclined.

One had a leg rest, a neck and head rest.

One even had a vibrating cushion.

 

Her latest chair has electronic controls.

Like a rocket in snail motion

It lifts, tips and launches Mum

To the standing up position, then waits

Patiently while she shuffles to the toilet,

Then shuffles back again.

 

Sometimes she talks to dad’s photo.

Or stares dolefully at his empty chair.

Then falls asleep from boredom,

Glasses tipped on her precipice nose,

Chin on her stained T-shirt

As the television shouts at itself.

 

At one time she would knit while I followed

The electric click of her fingers and watched

The wool weave and grow to cover her lap as

She whispered, ‘Knit one, purl two’ creating

A reservoir of baggy jumpers, saggy cardigans

Mainly navy blue or mustard.

 

 

 

Most evenings once the curtains were drawn

Mum would peel off her panty girdle,

And flop it on the back of the chair,

Like the pelt from a seal pup

Smelling of dead skin,

Then stretch out her pale legs,

Knotted and lumped with veins

To roast savagely by the open fire.

 

For a while she took up reading

Chaste romance and murders.

The books stacked high beside her chair

Helped to fill her day with tales of

Gentlemen lovers and rogue killers.

Now they collect dust and coffee stains.

 

Often mum would sit and weep,

I never knew the reasons why

The sobs would shake her body

In unfathomed pain, but I encircled

Her with inadequate love and

Childish words of comfort. 

 

 Now it is too late for surprises

Or demands, but sometimes

I am tempted to travel home

And in one breath turn Mum and her

Chair to face the open window,

So that finally she can see

The sunshine on the grass

And all the flowers growing.