I wake up to
the ghost of her,
all that is left
stands there
in the dark above my couch–
her couch–on which,
half a dozen years ago
her independence
would never have allowed
for me to sleep there
stay there
a safeguard for my father’s
sleep; rest he needs
as temporary illness
interrupts
his normal watch.
Does she know me
does she know why I
am here?
How does she remember
how to find me?
She wants him,
and doesn’t understand
I am a wall that
talks her back to her bed.
Something leads her
to my side, again
and again,
this night, until
I bring her downstairs
to the kitchen and a cup
of hot brewed tea
with raspberry cognac
for sleep.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
Hi Susan. Same entity hangs out here on my couch as well. But complaining that there is no cognac with her tea.
This is yet another very special poem that gives pleasant fascination and a better understanding of the oft sleepless world of ‘the dreamers’.
This series is, of course, based on experience with my mother during her illness. She’ll be gone 7 years ago the 30th of this month and maybe that’s why it’s coming out.