My Mother is Forgetting

My mother is forgetting. Things are passing her by as if they were sailing too fast down the river while she is caught in the roots of some large tree.

My mother is forgetting. To her time is an elastic band, forever stretching and falling back on itself.

My mother is forgetting. She leaves her cup of tea to grow cold and asks me again, and then once more, if I am leaving on Saturday or Sunday.

My mother has forgotten aspects of herself which show her in a poor light but perhaps she has also forgotten that once she was tall and reached the sky.

My mother has forgotten to close the door, she wants to peer out at the night and walk on the damp grass in bare feet, forget her ninety years and spin laughing like the stars.

My mother wants to peer out at the night and walk on damp grass, forget her ninety years and spin like the stars.

The home of writer Bronwen Griffiths