Soaps and Roses: Forget Me Not

Wednesday 3 April 2013

Forget Me Not

Forget Me Not Path

(Source 1)

Last night I had a dream. It was a good dream. It was sunny and warm in my dream. It was the South of France. I was with my mum and we were sitting soaking up the warmth of the sun; my mum with her slim legs stretched out in front of her, tanned and healthy looking, her dark curls soft against her cheek.

Like a young Elizabeth Taylor.
(Souce 2)

I remarked that she looked so much better with a sun kissed glow upon her skin. (So much better than what?) We laughed together, enjoying the moment. Mother and Daughter. But as the dream continued something was wrong; something was missing! I searched around in my dream drenched sleepy state. What was missing? What was wrong?

My mum was still there. She is still here, even were I to wake, my mum is still here. Except that.... hold on.... yes, my mum is here, but it is not the woman in my dream. It is not my mum as I knew my mum. She has gone; the woman in my dream, my mum has gone, slipped away. My mum - who when I was little read to me, who taught me how to sew, who taught me to bake - she is not there! Even as she sits now in her armchair smiling vacantly. She looks familiar, but not. That soft dark hair now grey and grizzled. Her blue eyes, once so full of life and intelligence, now a glassy vacant blue, like a rabbit caught in the headlights.

She is like a rose that has withered - it's blooms faded.
(Source 3)

She laughs (without humour) and hums (without tune). At what? - she doesn't know! Neither do I. Is she happy? Is she scared? I don't know and neither does she. Her thin arthritic and bony age-spotted hand clasps mine - we look at each other and smile. She doesn't know what date it is or remember what I just told her. Does she really know who I am? How much longer will it be before she will look at me and that vacuous expression in her eyes remain as she wonders who is this stranger holding her hand?