My mother is dying.Time has run out for us, for her.
Hard to know if telling her I love heryet one more time, a habit I discovered latemakes a difference.
Perhaps a little.
She turns my words over in her handas foreign coinsshe has been told have valuethat she does not really recognise.
Her generation, a woman of her class,didn’t use that word love
that was for actresses, Hollywood
My mother rationed it like electricity, food
enemies had to be beaten, bombs avoidedfires put out
Love would be shownin a more practical waythrough duty, service.
To cook, clean, breastfeedwork, savethat became the point, what mattered most
It was unpatriotic, indulgent to talk of love
foolishwhen it was obviousin the accumulation of things, repeatedactions.
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