Fragment of an Obituary
‘My mother died in Paris in the flat where she was born.And the last thing she heard was the children laughingand playing in the stairway where she laughed and played.’
So strange how the words hold me -As children cling, tightlyFor the last time as childrenBefore they leave to find the world -Joy and sadness, a cocktail we all have to drink.I do not remember the lady’s nameNor anything of her long life,And I do not know the daughter whoOffered these words to an unknown world.But she spoke to me like an old friend –A friend who shares the intensityOf life shaped and warped by irony.
What did she think, I wonder, this ladyAs she listened to the laughter and play?Did she see her own playmates this last timeAs the first - the years fading like a dream?Or did she feel nothing but sorrow and regret?And did she have a good life, endingIn a good death?The questions litter my life as theDead leaves litter my garden –I can clear the leaves for a time,But sooner or later, they will fall againFor me, or someone else to burn.