Yesterday Afternoon

I sat down in my armchair, ‘just for a minute,’

then I was dreaming. There was my Poppi! I didn’t 

know it was a dream. In the dream I didn’t know 

she’d been dead. ‘Poppi, you’re back!’ I said, 

with a joyful shout, and ran after her down the passage 

as she scampered in a way she hadn’t these last few years, 

but once did. I wanted to see her sweet face. 

She never turned it to me, but I knew it was her. 

Two other cats – Freya in 2010, Selene 2015 – 

disappeared right after moving in here, to go and explore

for two whole days. Each time, I thought I’d never 

see them again – until they turned up, curiosity satisfied, 

no more wanders. In my dream, I thought it was just

like that. ‘Oh, Poppi,’ I said. ‘Here you are!’

I was laughing, excited. ‘Come here,’ I called,  

‘and give me a cuddle.’ But she ran happily, full 

of life and strength, and I ran too without stumbling –

which I can’t any more. Maybe that fact interrupted,

told me I was dreaming. With a sudden wrench

I woke up – alone in my chair, in a silent house.

The Spring day was already turning dark.

‘I dreamed that Poppi came back,’ I told a friend.

‘Perhaps she did,’ she said. Perhaps … it was

vivid enough. Others, other loved ones who 

have gone on, have visited in dreams. Was this 

a hello from Poppi-turned-angel? But in the dream

I was running too. Was it a different angel-message

to tell me, ‘Fear not. You will soon be rejoined.’ ? 

Sharing with Poets and Storytellers United for Friday Writings #249: Message from an Angel.

The Voices

The noise in her head

is made of voices –

her family’s voices

lifelong and blaming,

the voice of the former husband 

whispering insults 

just before he hit,

the voices of other women

scornful, demanding to know 

why she didn’t just go …

The voices of landlords

asking more and more money

for hovels, refusing repairs;

the voices of addicts

her neighbours

yelling and screeching

all hours; and the voices

of not-friends-after-all

excusing themselves

from going out for a coffee.

Her voice, as she tries

to make sense of all this

talking to me, 

is surprisingly clear.

‘Why’ she asks,

‘can we not find compassion?’

She blames COVID isolation

from which we haven’t recovered,

and the young eyes always on phones, 

not looking outward to other people.

I see also an older pattern

still not gone from the world:

a woman alone, no man

beside her to demand 

the automatic respect

she deserves in her own right.

I can do nothing practical, only listen, 

tell her she’s making sense (she is) 

and hope my one small voice 

provides some momentary relief.

Sharing with Poets and Storytellers United for Friday Writings #248, where we are invited to write about a type of noise, literal or metaphorical. (It seems I might need to explain, for some readers, that the 'she' here is not me. I am the listener, observer and narrator.)

Losing Poppi

I want to lift you up to my heart, my girl, as I did when you were alive; to hold you, and stroke your soft, silky head, and hear you purr. After a little while, you’d want to be put down, so I would do that, and scratch behind your ears as you lay on one of your high perches. They were all around the house. Through you, I discovered that Burmese cats love to climb and be high. It was easier for me, too; I didn’t have to stoop to caress you. When I was done – when you began to fall asleep, or I felt the need to attend to my tasks – I would show you my open palm, then close it deliberately, twice. I taught you that as a signal to say, ‘We’re done for now. See you later.’ You were profoundly deaf, so I needed to find visual ways to communicate. A friend once witnessed you respond to this hand gesture with a long, slow blink of your eyes … the cat signal for ‘I love you.’

We loved each other. And now you are gone. Never was a cat of mine so thoroughly gone! Others did little hauntings for a while after they died – such as my first cat, Guinivere, lying on the clean clothes in the ironing basket (which she was not allowed to do in life); the kids and I caught frequent glimpses. Or my last before you, Selene, chasing her toys along the passage with familiar little rustlings and tinklings, after she’d died and the toys were put away. But you – you were gone.

For the first month I spring-cleaned the house like mad. Not before time! I didn’t quite finish the job, but I got most of it done. ‘Keep busy’ has always been my strategy for dealing with grief.

The next month was the complete opposite. I sank into inaction, lethargy, possibly depression. I sought escape, into fairly mindless romance novels and Netflix shows. I didn’t want to be with my own thoughts. All kinds of things that needed doing got ignored. Also I wept.

Now it's the third month. Finally, I know what to do with my grief. I write.

Accentuate the Positive

The peace talks with Iran have broken down again –

but the President is sounding confident and looking well.

Predictions promise the hottest summer on record yet –

but at least my little cat didn’t live to suffer through it.

The rising prices can’t be stopped or even slowed –

but I exercise less these days, so my appetite is smaller.

See, it doesn’t matter how bad things are – 

you can ‘always look on the bright side of life!’

Though the world is breaking down in front of our eyes – 

I’m already 86. With luck, I’ll be dead by then.

Written for Friday Writings #247 at Poets and Storytellers United, where we are invited to take a negative concept and turn it into something positive. This jaundiced little piece is not at all what Magaly had in mind! Normally I would  applaud, emulate and endorse her commitment to genuine reframing, but – apologies, dear readers – this time I was caught in a despairingly cynical mood. Later: Nevertheless, some readers seem to have missed the ironic mood – as so often happens when I attempt irony!

Suddenly

 

My irises announce new Spring:

sweet blooms, first in my tiny garden,

their vivid blue singing aloud

a glorious hymn to life.

Not mere fol-de-lol frippery

like sillier, frillier flowers,

they seem broad and strong –

though they are tender and too soon gone,

the brief delight glaring and fading

like sudden fireworks, or a trumpet note

bursting upon the air ... yet leaving

that bright memory fully imprinted.

Written  (on Spring Equinox) for Friday Writings #246: Light-hearted words for Spring, at Poets and Storytellers United. Word list (use one, some or all): fol-de-lol, frippery, tender, delight, singing, sweet, new. (Yes, you may correct the first to fol-de-rol if you prefer.)

Old Family Photos

 

In this picture I’m dancing

with my cousin Leo –

as kind as he was handsome.

I must have been 16. He,

older by seven years. 

Now I’m 86. He’s dead.

In this one, I’m a baby,

fat and round, like the beach ball 

posed beside me (a fashion

in baby snaps back then). Pretty

curls, pretty pursed lips, and 

a solemn, shrewd, appraising stare.

Here’s my young mother

in a long winter coat. The few 

trees are bare. Her dark, wavy hair, 

parted in the centre, is pinned 

back off her forehead. She is

holding me up to the light.

Here she is again, kneeling 

in an empty field beside one 

lump of rock. She’s draped it 

with McLean tartan. Red and green. 

Her father’s tartan. (I wonder

if I’m looking at Culloden.)

Of course, she was much

older then. That was the same trip 

when she and my stepfather posed, 

all dressed up – top hat, gloves – 

to attend, of all things, a garden party 

at Buckingham Palace. Such proud smiles!

There’s my little brother, with me 

and his best friend Roger, at The Gorge – 

showing off his balsa-wood boat, The Star,

which our dad made. We are standing

knee-deep in water. That same day 

The Star escaped, tumbling the rapids.

‘Stay there!’ said our dad, pointing

at the shore, as he set off to track it

all the way down to flat water. Only

the slender mast broke. But he found us 

crowded on top of a small, flat rock, 

oblivious of raging swirls. (No photo.)

We come to me in my twenties:

bridesmaid to a childhood friend,

then to my nearest cousin; my graduation;

then all those balls I attended with Don

whom I married first time around.

Even my own wedding.

The histories continued, but

the album comes to an end. This was 

the one I inherited after my mother died, 

the one she filled – mostly with pictures

of me. She wasn’t a cuddly mother, but,

after all, she must have liked me.

Written for Friday Writings #245: Family at Poets and Storytellers United.