Memory

Walking through the door, smell of lavender catches in the throat, 

She sits in a wheelchair slightly dishevelled, in her best skirt. . 

This woman who dabbed stains religiously off the small boy's shirt. 

A moment captured in the eyes, images - flick slow; old celluloid in an old head. 

Smiling, recognition slowly spreads, as sunshine burns away the morning mist. 

Donald she says with a twinkle and a smile. 

Smile that falters for a briefest few, 

as the son of the father, crystallises her view. 

Was disappointment registered for a heartbeat, the dread.

A yearning for a man who is twenty years gone dead. 

So soon the twinkle and smile resume, mother's grace, 

As we talk about happy times in her happy place. 

Times when merriment, food, laughter were the order of the day. 

Times when the small boy was not his father sitting here today