Pentlands Writers: Sara Innes
I have been a member of the writers’ group for nearly two years. I have enjoyed trying my hand at various different genres and frequently surprise myself by writing poetry – something I hadn’t even thought about since finishing school many, many years ago.
My work is with children who have problems acquiring speech and language. I love the original way children combine words, create new words and produce fascinating ‘errors’ in an effort to express themselves – their accidental language speaks volumes.
Due Care and Attention (A Story) - Timeless Dichotomy (A Poem) - Prayer Flags (A Haiku)
My Two Favourite Letters (A Poem)
No breath of wind
nor fleck nor flaw
to catch the eye,
crisp and cloudless,
the afternoon sky
holds you,
misplaced moon.
Half perfect sphere
of dreamy white
reflected light,
in eternal gloom,
your dark side hides
beyond endless blue.
From the corridor I catch a glimpse the Carnegie’s cat as he lounges, a sprawling unapologetic puddle warmed by the afternoon sunlight flooding in onto the busy carpet. The soft orange stripes gently rise and fall, almost imperceptibly, as he purrs. Contented and uncaring, he squanders time between meals by napping and taking occasional comfort breaks, through the cat flap, in the shrubbery. I watch the sleeping animal and sigh.
I’m feeding him twice daily, while the Carnegies are away skiing. He is so easy to please. All he needs is a snug spot to snooze and faithfully preserved mealtimes and menus. He has no complaints and his amber ooze spreads a little further every day.
I feed my mother too. Each day her well-worn body is simply nourished. Her mind, though, is further out of reach.
“When did he say he’d be home?” she enquires, her thin voice tentative and uncertain. The worry lines highlighting her eyes and forehead deepen.
“Who, Mum?”
“You’re father! What did he say? I didn’t think he’d be gone this long.” She glances furtively out at the road then back again to me. Her stale question hangs between us and I have to overcome the urge to throw the windows open wide and suck in fresh air. I try to stay calm.
“We talked about this, Mum. Remember? … Dad died seven years ago... Remember?”
It surprises me how matter of fact I can be about my father’s death. Desensitised, perhaps, by repetition and time. Daddy’s girl, I was. “Take care of your mother when I’m gone”, he said. He knew I would, he just had to say it, out loud - pass the baton, knowing he had done all he could.
Through weary, clouded eyes she looks at me, recognising me today it seems, seeking confirmation. A slight inkling pricks her consciousness, but not enough to release the memory. The news is new to her, once more. Without words, she shuffles her frail frame out of the room to sit at the foot of her bed, warmed by the sun streaming in through the window, and weeps silently for her loss. Her heart breaks. Again.
Together they had made one of those couples, my mother and father. They complimented one another perfectly. Then again, theirs was the stiff-upper-lipped generation, they would have hidden any ugliness from their children. We saw what they wanted us to see.
My mother’s slow decline had already begun, but it was easier then, when my father was alive. He was her touchstone, her constant and faithful companion, their partnership forced to adapt - evolving each day. He intuitively knew how to handle her: he spoke to her softly, stroking her arm, soothing her. He would kiss her forehead and hold her hands. They would dance, shifting weight slowly from one foot to the other - he would lead and she would follow, swaying. He cared for her. He loved her and, however changed or obscured by strange behaviour she became, he could still see the girl he had married.
I don’t have the same patience that he had. My mother feels more like a stranger to me every day.
They say it is better to mollify, to play along, to pacify and say “there, there”. But there are times when, selfishly and for my own sanity, I need to tell her the way it really is, in the hope that this time she will hear me, this time she will hold on to my words and make a solid, lasting memory and keep it safe.
My eyelids feel heavy, the skin beneath my eyes swollen and puffy. Our sleep was interrupted again last night. We could not calm her. It’s not her fault. She hasn’t been herself and they are tinkering with her medication - that complicated compromise between anxiety and drowsiness, blood pressure and kidney function… the list goes on.
With increasing frequency I imagine my life without her, this strange woman. How easy life would be. But then, in the most unlikely moments - surreptitiously dunking a biscuit in her tea or folding a blanket in her familiar and meticulous fashion - I catch a glimpse of my real mother and understand why we soldier on. The pair of us.
It surprises me when I realise I still need her every bit as much as she needs me.
Wrapped round school railings,
colourful girls, arms waving –
ripped silk in the wind.
Consider the frozen tinkety-tink of giddy ice
As it reels against the tumbler’s edge.
High-pitched, crystal cut
xylophone tones resound
like peals of liquid laughter.
Music to my ears.
A blissful promise:
a heady blend of intoxicating aromas swirl
as iced water dances
in juniper laced quinine,
tapping its tune.
Chilled,
the slick glass holds
a misty-eyed mouthful or two,
or three.
Affable bubbles cling to the sides
and rest
before their final ascent.
Miniature spheres, dizzy and carefree,
burst to the surface
and with white-noised hiss
they effervesce.
A woman gasps
then giggles -
some careless elbow jolts
and, splish, a precious sip is spilt,
as the lovely liquor quietly thaws
and thins.