Her house smells comfortingly of shortbread and tea and young cat,
Stories spill flitting between all nine of her decades.
I stare at her head pondering on neurons,
The odd intensity of her delivery,
On and on, fast she talks, exhausting,
And only the inhaler interrupts.
In the digression I visualize her mind map;
Overlapping, intertwining and cloudy blots.
Expelling itself before the time takes over,
A lengthy legacy to be left.
Stories spill flitting between all nine of her decades.
I stare at her head pondering on neurons,
The odd intensity of her delivery,
On and on, fast she talks, exhausting,
And only the inhaler interrupts.
In the digression I visualize her mind map;
Overlapping, intertwining and cloudy blots.
Expelling itself before the time takes over,
A lengthy legacy to be left.
2 comments:
Wow, I love it. The idea of a necessity to pass on information 'before you go' leading to a gabbled torrent of stories, facts muddled, stories losing their meaning - 'where was I dear?' and the conception that old people have a screw loose when really they are bursting to talk to somebody. Compelling yet sad...
This is really poignant, Anna. It's a real thrill to see this creativity on the blog -- thank you so much!
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