‘Inconnu’, nearly 94

Her words are few,
but elegant;
a smile, but yet
I do not know
if she’s content:
a book that’s closed,
with cheerful cover,
and my endeavour
to understand
does not succeed;
and now with hearing very low,
and memory so short,
I cannot comprehend her need,
or instigate a flow
that will reveal herself,
her feelings, way of thinking,
the little things that come together, linking,
to know a person
(in Welsh we say, ‘adnabod’,
in French, ‘connaître’) –
a pleasant lady,
but her heart unread;
we cannot walk
inside another’s head
or heart, when doors are shut.

Is this her personality, her nature?
or characterisic of her birthland’s culture?
or is it due to childhood trauma
(– her father went or sent
away, maybe a consequence
or scar of first world war),
her mother ill
– frustrations of a childhood spent
‘farmed out’ to stay with different branches
of the family –
unfairly felt herself unwanted,
she kept aloof, afraid she would intrude
on family relationships,
though probably they strived to welcome and include
this troubled cousin in their circle,
and arduously endeavoured to reach out
with true affection, caring love.
Maybe there’s been amassed
much baggage from the past,
stifled bitterness,
held tight within
now clogs the spring
of self revealing, sharing conversation,
speaking to please and impress
but disguise distress …

Trust opens doors for fellowship
with one another and a heavenly Father.

There still is time,
the story is unfinished,
perceptive empathy may come
in part.