The Woman on the Other Side of the Screen

Gold cherry
Poem of the week
Pick of the Month

By Ewan

Mon, 21 Nov 2022
  • 2783 reads
12 comments
 

There are no names here,

in the digital make-believe of Skype,

where I can see a woman,

who used to be my mother.

 

My sainted sister says my name,

finger pointed into the tablet screen

to where my face can be seen

but not recognised.

 

So I shout, the data freeze

makes my name unintelligible

- but it doesn’t matter, really -

it falls on deaf ears.

 

I make faces, childish I know,

but it makes her laugh:

she’ll make faces too,

both are better than tears.

 

A ramble may begin,

my sister will follow

- better than I -

into the darkness of speech.

 

I pick out two phrases,

“When” and “Going home”

but they are surrounded

by disjunctive words.

 

These rambles career

from decade to decade

colliding with names I don’t know

and slang words from a past long gone.

 

After twenty minutes of gestures

I wave my goodbyes

and my mother blows me kisses,

as though I were a mis-remembered beau.

 

The mouse clicks and the screen goes dark:

how cruel it is, that my mother wanders

in the same curséd forest

where my father, too, was lost.

 

Certificate U
Poem
Gathered Flowers
Miscellaneous

Comments

Submitted by Rhiannonw on

So sad for you, but maybe she is not troubled so much by it. When it first starts the confusion seems more disturbing for the person themselvs.. My mother-in-law started calling my husband Mr Keith, and it seemed linked with thinking of him as her carer having got her into the Home where she is happy. The seamless moving from story to story and era to era can be shocking at first, and must be more difficult over Skype.

There seems enjoyment at seeing you and the kisses imply some deeper recognition? Rhiannon

 

Submitted by Ewan on

the deafness doesn't help. Hearing aids have been lost too often to consider replacement and the one she has left (or right) is too high-tech for her to use to any great purpose.
It's a brutal disease, and I'm devastated that my mother, after caring for my father through ten years of it, is lost in the same dark forest.

Author Page at the 'Zon
 

Submitted by Rhiannonw on

So sorry. We had the same scenario over hearing aids, and attempting large print writing. My son plays music to her, which she seems to hear better! Rhiannon

 

Submitted by onemorething on

Such a moving poem. So sorry that your mum has this cruel, cruel disease too. It's our Pick of the Day. Do share this powerful poem if you can. 

 

Submitted by marandina on

"...how cruel it is, that my mother wanders

in the same curséd forest

where my father, too, was lost." It is a cruel situation. Your poem captures a familiar sequence for many, I suspect. Adroit and moving. Paul

 

Submitted by lenchenelf on

Very best to you Ewan

Lena x

 

Submitted by Di_Hard on

Dark forest is the perfect description - where my Dad lived, behind the house, was a woods I used to go in every day. He only went there to collect fallen wood for the fire, he had a wood shed and knew how old everything was in there, which logs were from which tree, where they came from. It was part of his "providing" ethic. The last time I visited when he was able to walk round the woods, we went together, but the woods was so different to how I remembered  - holly had sprung up everywhere and all the paths I had walked with my dog had gone. My brother had got him a dog then, and so he had started going into the woods for walks. He had been trying to mark his way by laying sticks to point the right direction, but it was horrible, I was scared, not knowing where I was and surrounded by dark dense prickles, and he enjoyed showing me his new ways he had made, holding onto his reassuring, resourceful self. But it was like what was going on in his head, all the paths disappearing, and him having to leave notes everywhere in the house. And the last time I saw him he could not speak, and drifted away.I am not sure he knew me, and it was as if he was on the other side of a prickly hedge and couldn't get out. I am so sorry about your Mum

 

Submitted by Insertponceyfre... on

I'm so sorry about your mum Ewan - like Rhiannon I hope she doesn't mind as much as you do - I suppose that's the only thing we can cling onto in these circumstances. It's a horrible horrible thing for you to see though, and I'm really pleased this has golden cherries. It should be shared far and wide

 

Submitted by Insertponceyfre... on

This is our Poem of the Week - Congratulations!

 

Submitted by celticman on

a disenchanted forest of feelings, indeed 

 

Submitted by gletherby on

So beautiful and so moving Ewan. Gayle 

Submitted by Insertponceyfre... on

This is our Poem of the Month - Congratulations!