Why couldn't I hold your hand? You ask
Yourself in golden bowers of infinity -
Was it because he felt too old to do it?
It was too infantile an act to make?

Questions! Always questions! It is the time.

And I tear myself away from this
I should not defile the memory
Of the dead, or besmurch their truth -
If truth had ever entered into it!

Why could I not hold your hand
And feel comfort in that simple act
of parent, child, and holy ghost?
I, of course, know the reasons why
But it would take near seventy years
To explain them all. Oh so many
Causes for repulsion to have set in -
Explanations that now are built
On retrospective loss and guilt -

I move my leg imperceptibly away
From yours as we sit on that green sofa -
A sofa so hard as to be a penance -
But carry on sitting next to you
Because I felt it was the right thing to do.
And somewhere deep inside there still
Existed the tiny vestiges of love
Bruised beyond all expectations;
Beyond the normality of just relations
Between mother, son, and holy ghost.

Don't worry yourself about it, Mother,
Whilst you have rested in golden bowers
I have taken the stone from my heart
And with great deliberation rubbed
The sharpness off the knife's edge
Blunting it so that it can't draw
Blood from either of us any more.

Just reach across the great divide
And seek out my hand. I promise
It will allow itself to feel your touch -
It will not withdraw and hide.
Life is too short for that.

I feel your arm reach over my shoulder
And turn the page.

© Griffonner 2025