Through a crack in the door
I watch her all alone. I wonder if she is dead. She is still. Her hair is a mess. She sits hunched, pale and painful. Even as I walk in and disturb the emptiness, as I open the curtains and the light comes in, she remains blind and unspeaking. Then she wakes, slowly and confused. She blinks. I take her hand and ask how she is. I can see the answer. I brush her hair, put in her hearing aid, put her jacket on and help her onto her feet. She says she is cold. The heating went off an hour ago. It’s one o’clock. She is expected in the house. ‘I must have been dreaming. I dreamt there were little children all about me.’ That is all she can tell me.
Later that day we go to S Gardens. We manage to make it into the first garden and she stands at the portal as though on the edge of life. Does she notice the view, the splash of blue iris in the Grecian urn? I take a photo, for when I return alone one day.
The clouds are heavy with rain.