Writings

16. Oct, 2020

A Pair of Lost Slippers

You are gone from the fastness of the house
Filled with all our familiars.
They have become a displaced diaspora,
Taking refuge where they may.
Your long glassed dressing-table, which took the light from the window
And in whose reflection I grew, sits in the dark now, unclaimed.
The necklaces you treasured,
The wedding rings so touchingly melded into one
When both my grandparents were gone, are in my drawer now.
You don’t want them anymore,
All of those things that were integral to hearth and home
And somehow to the fact of us all.
I know you can’t see them, or fasten them,
Dress up before that glass, look in it to apply liquid makeup
And spray on French perfume,
Or clip on the agate earrings Dad once bought you, favourites.
I know that you are happy where you are,
That there are people to be with.
Yet I find that of the few things retained you will keep,
Clothes in the main,
Your slippers have been misplaced and your feet, in only sandals,
Have been cold for days.
I try to double up on what there is, for wear and spare.
Even then you can’t count on putting your hand on them,
Those simplicities.
Someone else who can see took a brief fancy.
My house is filled with your looked after things,
Nothing broken or discarded in years.
And now it comes down to having slippers on your feet, or not.
There are so many losses, aren’t there, involved in just that?

Ruth Enright

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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.