Fair of face,
And proud of place,
Witty, coiffed, demanding.
Ever bright, alert to slight,
Both charming and exacting.
Has come to this:
Not quite a wraith,
Not yet a shell,
But scraped somehow
Of essential Estelle.
Her facade has cracked,
Her chatter lacks,
The cohesiveness of old,
She gathers shards as best she can,
Attempts to make them whole.
Snatching memories,
As they drift past,
Querulous cries,
“I know I’m less.”
She sometimes lets me brush her hair,
Like I did when I was five,
But roles reversed,
Now I’m the mom,
For as long as we’re alive.
One Response
Speechless! ❤️