A Tale of Two Mothers

They floated into her clouded her mind.
Shreds. Wisps.
A holiday; a birthday;
her orange sun hat; Joe’s eyes.
‘You remember that concert when Joe clapped at the wrong time?’
I didn’t remind her I wasn’t born.
Smiles, sadness animated her face.
Regular confusion;
terror; fury, distress.
Hours just staring; nights so dark.
‘Our first date was the pictures. Black Magic. Joe brought Black Magic.’
That was a good day.
At first they adored her,
the residents.
Beryl; Kay; the others.
She’d brighten their days.
‘Life and soul of the place, your Mum. Has us all in stitches.’
Then they avoided her.
I focus on ‘real’ Mum.
The fun one.
The sexy, stylish one.
Dressed in Dior for a ball.
I block the visions of stained blouses and unkempt hair.
And bad breath.
She found peace.
Our turn to remember.
Irises and music.
Scones and jam.
Her remains scattered. Enriching Yorkshire earth.
That was a good day.

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