7. Jun, 2020
Images cascade through our past,
A short distance as the crow flies,
When the two of you were young,
Your lives and all the things you did
The driving force,
The two of us adjuncts
To that attachment,
In red trunks
And a costume with a frill,
On beaches, having picnics,
Smiling under our fringes
At the two of you,
Always talking,
Still talking
When I'd listen at night
From the top of the stair
To make sure you were there,
Still talking
Through all the issues of the day
In passionate debate,
Still talking and in photographs,
Still smiling, until first one of you
And then one of us, wasn't there.
Ruth Enright
Two teddies are now
Both in my keeping,
Gifts to toddler grandchildren, us.
When new, Bruin was purple, larger,
With a deep growl.
My brother's.
Teddy was smaller, fawn,
Mine.
He lost his growl after an unfortunate fall
And a sink bath.
I loved Teddy with a depth which included emotional guilt.
I was jealous because Bruin was bigger and purple
And my own ted must never know of that.
I was the oldest but the girl.
Perhaps that played into who got which bear.
Bruin is no longer purple,
Faded after decades on my brother's windowsills,
At home and in his flat.
For a few years now, both have looked down from
The high shelf beside my daughter's childhood raised bed.
They leaned together, slightly forward,
As if wanting to come down.
I climbed up to get them the other day and soon saw why.
Both lambswool, moths have pecked their back legs into small
bald patches.
It's been a poignant time as my mother has lately died too.
I felt I had let them down, the two teds,
Neglected while cherished still.
I've dusted them off and put them on the coverlet
Of the single bed below,
Where they seem more contented, two old men together.
Better now, their worn little faces seem to say.