Stuff I Never told You

You had lovely hands; couldn’t cook to save your life;
put salt in rice pudding instead of sugar. You hugged
at arm’s length like you were afraid of catching something.
You’d yell at me if I forgot to clean my room – drove the car
into a ditch then lied about how much you drank...Told me
our cat bought it in the road outside, didn’t cuddle me
when I cried. You smoked Sobranie , and arranged for me
to go out with one of your man-friends from work...
I was only fifteen, and he was pushing thirty. You said
you rather fancied having ‘coffee-coloured’ kids
as you so delicately put it. Needless to say,
I stood him up, so he made do with you, instead.
In secret you knitted a new outfit for my favourite doll –
more dropped stitches than not, but it was the thought
that counted; all laid out...tiny hat, leggings, and frock,
on our dresser in the kitchen, when I came down
that Xmas morning.

You went ape because they said your cholesterol was too high,
didn’t understand what they meant, so you worried yourself
half to death..Then, you forgot where you lived – threw your clothes
down the chute...swore blind there was a tiger in your bed
and that Dad was trying to stab you, when all he wanted to do
was to trim your nails. Sat and twirled your hair round and round
your finger when they said you’d have to be committed – when Dad
couldn’t cope anymore. In those days, Alzheimer’s hadn’t been
invented, so they labelled you as ‘mad’ – finished up in an asylum
where you lasted just two weeks. I tried to convince myself
death wasn’t the end, but it never worked. Then there was the time
I gave birth, to what would have been your grandkid. You were there,
at the end of the bed, and I wished you’d come sometimes
to visit, but I haven’t seen you ...not since then.