It was my fault in the beginning,

Setting out pictures which had been lying

Haphazardly in a bedroom drawer,

Into neat, assembled columns.

A photograph album,

Resurrecting her history in clear

Monochrome and technicolour detail.

Mum could view them with her

Magnifying glass and remember

All the people from her past.

 

I rang her one evening,

As mum was preparing the dinner

For her mother and her father.

She was setting out places for three!

“Mum, they’ve been dead for thirty years!”

A pregnant pause on the phone line.

“Well, nobody told me!”

 

The next day there was trouble anew

As, Ian, the handyman in the flats,

Rang me on his mobile phone,

“I’ve just stopped your mum in the foyer

She had sandwiches ready for Frank.

I told her he’d been delayed on a job

And sat her down with a cup of tea.”

 

I rang mum a little later.  She was still

Sat down with her cheese and ham.

I decided to tackle the issue head on,

As there was no obvious remedy

“Dad’s been gone for twenty years, mam!”

“Well, nobody told me!”