Mrs Brennan

By heathertales

Tue, 17 Nov 2015
  • 584 reads
3 comments
 

Mrs Brennan

To her husband, she was Aileen,

the flame-haired sweetheart of his youth.
The embers of her eyes burned still
though ash grew thick and fast.
He came every day and sat by her side,
bringing clementines, and photographs
and stories of the family
though there was often not much to tell.
What little there was had been said before.
He held her hand as she slept,
lacing her fingers through his own.
Her skin was was thin and balmy,
like the skin of an onion,
and it made him nervous,
as though squeezing too tight
might cause it to snag upon her angular knuckles.
And still, there was warmth in her touch,
familiarity.
It made him forget their surroundings.
He closed his eyes and was nineteen again,
rowing across Lough Corrib,
listening to his girl's commands 
as they made their way to the lonely isle
to explore the ancient ruins.
He smiled as he remembered her tuneless voice
singing ditties as he rowed,
every blister on his hands worth it,
every twinge in his shoulder eased 
by the warmth of her company.
This was his favourite time,
when she slept.
When they could be as they were once,
themselves,
in utter peace.
When she awoke,
he never knew which her he would find,
and neither did she.


To her children, she was Ma,
a force to be reckoned with;
a woman who could expose their every secret
with just the glint in her eye.
She instilled fear as much as admiration,
the death of you if you had done wrong,
the life of every party.
Davie, her youngest, laughed with pride 
as he recalled being taught, aged twelve, 
how to make the perfect gin and tonic.
"Two fingers gin.  Four fingers tonic."
she would command, her voice serious,
her eyes not so much.
But that was a woman who existed only in their anecdotes
and photographs,
browned with age and curling at the edges.
This lady who lay in the hospital bed was not their mother,
but a shadow, a fruitless husk.
They grew frustrated with her lost looks,
those eyes which searched for meaning in their faces,
but found nothing,
and rolled,
useless,
like marbles in their sockets.
They cried for her as though she was already gone,
and in many ways, she was.
But then came the good days, 
the days when the mists cleared
and she came back to the room.
"Davie, my lad," she said, clasping his wrist
and pulling him in for closer inspection.
She traced the outline of his face with her fingers,
gently following the ridges of the furrows 
which had formed over the last two years.
"What have you done to your face?"
The laughs which escaped were few and far between.
These moments were beautiful and fleeting,
like birds in migration,
and oh how they loved to hear those birds sing.
 
To her nurses, she was Mrs Brennan,
the sort that commanded the use of the surname
without ever having to ask.
She took her medication without question,
never called for help,
unless it was to fix the braid of hair
which curled around the nape of her neck.
Mrs Brennan loved to have her hair brushed
and would close her eyes to open them watery,
fresh with tears of pleasure,
or maybe it was gratitude.
Her nod was all the thanks we needed.
We read to her every morning from a book 
her family had brought.
We told her stories of her youth, 
of her days spent at the Keeper's Cottage,
waiting for her father to return from his post at the lighthouse,
and how the smell of salty air and thick, wet ropes
always drew a smile to her face.
Our voices cracked as we read aloud jokes
the family had gathered over the years,
and watched as our efforts tumbled into the air,
lost,
wasted.
We waited for a reaction,
a flicker even,
but still she listened, pensive, 
everytime waiting for the punchline.
We read and learned and admired
as we discovered Mrs Brennan,
a woman who had survived cancer,
a woman who had borne seven children and lost two,
a woman who loved to paint,
and who would walk for hours in October rain,
just to see the Autumn leaves glow one last time
before Winter plucked them from the trees.
 
We sometimes wondered whether it helped or not,
to read aloud these whispers of the past
to a woman who could not remember her own name.
We wondered whether they disappeared into the blindness
that etched itself across her face.
But sometimes, at night, a dim glow would fill the ward,
a reading lamp switched on.
Mrs Brennan could be found,
flicking through the book,
at times lovingly,
at others, rushed -frantic -
as though she was searching for answers
to questions she had not the words to ask.
It was in these moments,
if you were lucky enough to catch her eye,
that you saw the woman behind the disease,
frightened but there,
present though faint,
like sunlight breaking through the murky clouds of a storm.
It was then that she was Mrs Brennan,
not our patient,
but a mother,
a wife,
a woman,
Aileen.
Certificate PG
Poem
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Comments

Submitted by Insertponceyfre... on

A sharply observed piece. I like the way you've slotted all the pieces of this woman's life together. If I have one suggestion it might be to perhaps try this as a prose piece instead? See which works best..

Welcome to ABC - I'll keep an eye out for more from you!

 

Submitted by loquaciousicity on

A smooth, captivating characterisation...

Very nice!!

Submitted by skinner_jennifer on

A poingnant, reflective view of Mrs Brennan. A compassionate piece of writing.

Jenny.