Too little time to gather each memento,
Tokens only, second best, it’s true,
Each a valued part of all our yesterdays,
Virtual realities of you.
Here’s the service, china that you cherished,
Inside the case of glass so worldly old,
Incongruous among the modern,
Patina still polished, burnished gold.
There’s blue Willow Pattern, studied paintwork,
Aladdin’s lamp that took your fancy too,
Books on every subject that you purchased,
Read, shared, discussed, in nights where me and you
Sat up in the small hours drinking whisky,
Passion flying in between debate,
Nothing ever vetoed in discussion,
We didn’t know then time was running late.
Time, the bastard child of loving parents,
Belonging nowhere, orphaned while we muse
Each and every small memento looked on,
I’d swap them all for one more night with you.
My mother died five years ago, it’s not the anniversary of her death but she’s been in my mind a lot this while back. Dreams of her, conversations in the dreams, looks I know so well. Whenever this occurs I know there’s something I need to listen to, something I would have discussed with her, something that’s eluding my full understanding or something I’m ignoring. She was good on the somethings and the everythings. Nothing ever vetoed. Need to listen now. Or she’ll skelp my arse! And I’d welcome it for one more real conversation.