This was a fairly easy piece to write for the most part, in terms of the words and how they came initially. But it was an awkward, painful at times, piece to write and to read as it was being written. In the way that it reminded me of time passed and how the roles have gradually reversed.
And then the editing and the tweaking, the deciding on the final words of choice and their order. It was a very thought provoking and chilling thing to finish and finally read completed. I’m thankful that so far it’s only in part autobiographical, bearing in mind the eventual inevitable ending that’s implied. It’s only the order that’s left for fate to decide. And whether it’s the guilt of grief or silence that follows on at the end.
72.My favourite dancers dying. (12 April 2015).
Where did she go to, the woman I loved,
Who quick stepped head and shoulders above me,
My boyhood began in her spring time,
But while in her summer I looked to leaving,
She used to tapdance in the kitchen,
Long before I was fully grown,
It was maybe only a few steps,
But they were all joyfully her own,
Now she walks like newborn Bambi,
To the bathroom for a cigarette,
Even when she’s in her own house,
Especially when I’m there visiting,
The doors now open on my own Autumn,
And she’s worn famine thin by Winter,
While her stooping I want to be stopping,
I see her leading the way without knowing,
And my worries have been like flurries,
Next to her blizzards of maternal concern,
For she’d go snowblind for the love of us,
To shelter us from any hurt,
But I don’t know where this piece ends,
As now I’m slowing down myself,
And gradually I’m catching her up,
So soon I shall have cause to wonder,
Which of us, will go first?
(c) Jim Laing 2015.