Aunt Audrey

Aunt Audrey

What would you choose to take with you?
What objects would remind you of who you are
in the new home you haven’t chosen?

We go to her house, my sister and I,
unlock the door
go in like trespassers.
Weak sunlight floats the hall out of darkness,
for a moment I feel seasick.

In the kitchen - the old brown teapot
with it’s stained, knitted cosy
stops me in my tracks.

And I wonder where you might be wandering
today - in your mind?
Or maybe you’re riding the fantasy horse
the one you said you’d fallen off
when they found you lying in the street.

“She must always have wanted to go riding,”
I say to my sister – out of the blue, a burst balloon
of thought escaping my mouth.
She doesn’t hear. She holds up a picture of an
orange cat, “d’you think she’d like this?”

We proceed through the house we know so well
like hired mourners and are staggered by the
task of clearing it out.
We pass the first spare room bursting with
important research folders, buff, ragged at the edges.

At the top of the tall house are the other spare
rooms, rarely used, done up B&B style.
The wardrobe in ‘room 3’ contains
the props - hats, feather boas and impossible
dresses - for the ‘Little Theatre’.

I look out at the street far below and see her
coming up the path between spindly rose bushes
with her stick and trademark limp.
She stops and looks up to the window
and silently, slowly fades away.