Margaret

The first time I met you you were eating some homemade trifle,
a cream mustache distracted me from your initial,
witty introduction,
something about `fish`.

Now as I push your wheelchair through miles of ancient hospital corridors,
I can't help thinking about mortality.

Over the years you drove me places,
you were a terrible driver with the confidence
of someone who'd just woken up from passing out.
We'd get there somehow, but my feet were always tired from phantom braking.

I hold the plastic beaker to your quivering lips,
you smell old, as if you're becoming dust,
I lock on memories of your vibrancy.

You were a sturdy cook,
we would make rude comments on how your apple sponge,
could double as a door-stop, but drowned in custard,
it had an echo of a forgotten England.

You're so small in that bed,
you're not quite here,
I whisper your name,
you smile sadly at me and ask for the light,
to be turned down.

You did a `Henry Higgins` on me,
brought me in touch with the `Noble Bard of Avon`,
you were the first person to get me dunk.
Apple brandy whilst reading Macbeth,
80% proof and gliding home whilst unable,
to remove the stain from my sticky fingers.

I kiss your faintly sweating head,
whisper goodbye,
wonder if you will be here tomorrow.

We used to listen to Schubert Lieder,
Your quavering voice,
joining in,
tuneful but terribly brittle.

The next day,
I phone first and they said you died in the night,
I'm glad not to go again,
you were already gone,
I'd said goodbye.

My strongest memory?
The year you had your breakdown,
cuddling you very hard in the back garden,
you were crying,
hanging out the washing,
there were over-ripe apples lying,
all over the grass.

Before then you'd just been my tutor,
I knew then you were my friend.