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Her skin is frail and crumpled now
with liver spots and wrinkles
on that once translucent brow.
Those swollen legs and puffy feet
belie those time-worn snapshots
of a figure trim and neat.
And cloudy eyes and thinning hair
and whiskered mole and deafness
don’t mean she doesn’t care.
For she remembers, like a song,
a time when she was blooming –
fragrant, gorgeous, joyful, strong.
Evening in Paris, squirrel coat
and high heels, silken stockings;
glass beads, a graceful throat.
But that was then. These days she’ll dress
for warmth and ease and comfort.
Her socks don’t tease, there’s no caress.
She once had power: Do that! Do this!
Clean teeth! Wash face! she’d order.
All softened with a kiss.
But now her journey’s end is near
the mother turns to child,
and childhood memories are most dear.
Her inner strength still tells her: fight!
But mind and body let her down –
we mourn for one, one once so bright.
We want her back, we want to share
our lives again, the way we did
when she was young enough to care.
Jackie Williamson
