Megan

It seems
like just
the other day
when you would sit
in your jewel
coloured silk scarves
on your blue
cushion covered sofa
and chat to me,
your granddaughter,
about the news,
art, poetry
travel and love
with your sparkling
alive vibrancy
and gesticulations
that so piqued my
curiosity.
Your colourful home
overflowed with
secretive little
draws and cupboards
filled with ivory
treasures and
objects with her stories
and histories
gathered on trips
and life's other journeys.
Original paintings
and family photos
were crookedly
hung on
every spare piece
of wall,
shelves with books
on every subject
took up every other
space; tidiness was
never one of
your priorities.
Bright, scented
lilies sat in
blue and purple vases
on tables whose
legs stood on
exotic persian rugs.
Your life was full.

I visited you
yesterday on your
85th birthday.
You wore
pastel coloured
synthetic clothing
that someone else
had bought.
You sat still
while your hands
picked obsessively
at a non-existent
piece of fluff
on a pale
pink chair
against
insipid walls
hanging faded copies
of someone elses
bad artwork.
Your available reading
material was
Readers Digest
Condensed books
or outdated womens
magazines.
Fake pallid flowers
filled a white vase
on your immaculately
tidy white dresser
that sat
on the beige carpet.
Your eyes
are still bright,
your smile
still beautiful,
but you are now unable
to complete a sentence
and I can see how hard
you are trying to
retrieve those
slippery memories
of who I am
and who you are.