[ Issue 4 / February 2013 ]

 

She was gentle

as she washed my hair in beer

rolled it in curlers

for Sunday best.

 

It was summer,

she sat on the windowsill

chatting with neighbors.

She wore her pink lipstick smile,

her grey dress with rose polka dots

she was all things

beautiful.

 

I cannot recall when her smile faded,

face nettled with anger

gnarled by drink,

her chain smoking

the bag of pills.

 

In a drunken stupor

the dinner splattered the lino.

she slipped and fell,

sliding in the thick slimy mess.

Writhing with anger,

she thrashed all around her.

I ran with nowhere to go,

hid for hours behind the Beech tree,

rocking my baby sister for warmth.

 

An old woman now,

she remembers her life

solely with regret.

I remember

her pink lipstick smile.

*

M.L. Morrisey is Irish, although she has lived in Holland for many
years and continues to live between Ireland and Germany due to her
husband’s work. After a life in the Financial world, she has retired
early and found great joy in art and writing and loves getting lost in
watercolour and words.

 

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