The Gift
We all knew her as Auntie Cis.
For two years we barely nodded,
The deep distance of the English
Shuttering our different lives.
But our children crossed the road,
Chattering and sharing baubles,
They dawdled and were welcomed in,
And returned bright-eyed with treasure
A butterfly ring, a goldfinch,
Secret chocolate, a cake for tea
And a bagful of drinking straws.
In her parlour she gulped thin air
While they roamed the enchanted room,
Discovered glass trinkets, strings of beads,
Embroidered cushions, stuffed toys.
Watched, curious, as she sucked life
From the inhaler they played with.
When she clung, white-knuckled, to her gate
They ran to her flinging kisses,
Told her breathlessly of the playpark
And lunch and school and everything.
Pressed on her pictures soaked in colour
And begged to see her again.
She took to pacing her garden's bounds,
Said she would find her breath
And walk with them the two minutes
To the playpark,
One day.
The elder child, five, mourned like a woman
When we told her the news.
She drew her best picture
And left it, flapping in a plastic wallet
Under the bright August flowers.
Her grieving daughter, sifting through her mother's life,
Came to our door with a packet,
A Christmas stocking for the girls.
Cissy's final gift.