Holding onto her hand for dear life
One agonising minute at a time
Tick-tock, tick-tock, no-one able to stop this particular clock
Sad and sublime all at once
A wonderful mother who those far less than learmed flippantly refer to now and then as “dunce”
Passing ships in the night, perhaps?
A lapse in their own concentration
Patting her strands of hair
Greying now, stray pockets sprouting here and there
Closing their eyes together, hoping upon a miraculous prayer
Daughter turns to catch the rocking-chair in a corner
Memories floating on by one painstaking and shuddering rock at a time
Taking atrocious stock
Utterly unable to recall her very own grandson
Tongue-tied for all of the world to see
Withered face pressed against the sky
An empty ceiling, tears pouring on out of glass eyes
Searching, peeling, for some sort of feeling
Then, suddenly, a momentary smile
Penny poses the real question, wanting, longing to steal her away: “Do you remember me, Mom!?”
Dragging those fleeting etchings along by an unsettled arm, her mirror-image begins to cry
“I do! You’re… you’re Louise.”
Side to side
These kinds of things really can make it all seem worthwhile
“I love you so much.”
One final touch, then the long goodbye
Glass crumbles, comes tumbling down all round
And Patricia is gone

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