It's Still Life

Conversations with My Mother

I wish her a happy birthday. She turned 92 yesterday. She once said she prefers that I phone. Don’t bother with a visit, she said, we get on better when you ring. I make allowances. She 92. I wonder if I’ll make it to 92. I wonder if anyone will make allowances for me when I say things that rattle and bounce between ears like a headache in the making. A moment ago it was variegated nasturtiums and white cosmos, but her thoughts are drops of water dancing on a too hot surface. Every sentence is a new direction, an untrodden path. “Seashells,” she says, and I’ve no idea where she’s going with this. It’s like being hit with a battle’s bolt. I suspect these flowing thoughts are her paradise. We all search for paradise. Nice that she’s found hers.

Night is my velvet
A tangled curl of moonvine
Estranged from daylight

written for dVerse’s Haibun Monday – Changes