Leaves on road

Frustrating day.
Lost my temper with the care company.
The day disintegrated.
All pretty disastrous.
I pulled over here on my way back to the office to regroup and to make some calls.

I've added an extra of a serious case of slave labour witnessed a month ago ... not allowing her to rest in her retirement I had mum working hard on our nifty little production line making sloe gin from the sloes I gathered just after dad died.  She reported that it was tiring work. I did make her a cup of tea ... you just can't get the workers these days ...

I cannot find the words to express the anger I feel at the lack of continuity, consistency and compassion for her at this time. They speak with forked tongue, although I acknowledge that it is must also be a very complex undertaking. The one thing we had wanted to do was keep some stability and familiarity in place for her at this time.

My Mother Dwindles - Margaret Atwood

My mother dwindles and dwindles
and lives and lives.
Her strong heart drives her
as heedless as an engine
through one night after another.
Everyone says This can't go on,
but it does.
It's like watching somebody drown.

If she were a boat, you'd say
the moon shines through her ribs
and no one's steering,
yet she can't be said to be drifting;
somebody's in there.
Her blind eyes light her way.

Outside, in her derelict garden,
the weeds grow almost audibly:
nightshade, goldenrod, thistle.
Each time I hack them down
another wave spills forward,
up towards her window.
They batter the brick wall slowly,

muffle border and walkway,
slurring her edges.
Her old order of words
collapses in on itself.
Today, after weeks of silence,
she made a sentence:
I don't think so.

I hold her hand, I whisper,
Hello, hello.
If I said Goodbye instead,
if I said, Let go,
what would she do?

But I can't say it.
I promised to see this through,
whatever that may mean.
What can I possibly tell her?
I'm here.
I'm here.


(...except I'm not)