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I held her hand, that was always scarredI held her hand that was always scarred
I held her hand, that was always scarred From chopping, slicing, from the knives that lay in wait In bowls of washing-up, that was raw, The knuckles reddened, rough from scrubbing hard At saucepan, frying pan, cup and plate And giving love the only way she knew, In each cheap cut of meat, in roast and stew, Old-fashioned food she cooked and we ate; And I saw that they had taken off her rings, The rings she kept once in her dressing-table drawer With faded snapshots, long-forgotten things (scent-sprays, tortoise-shell combs, a snap or two From the time we took a holiday “abroad”) But lately had never been without, as if She wanted everyone to know she was his wife Only now that he was dead. And her watch? – Classic ladies’ model, gold strap – it was gone, And I’d never known her not have that on, Not in all the years they sat together Watching soaps and game shows I’d disdain And not when my turn came to cook for her, Chops or chicken portions, English, bland, Familiar flavours she said she preferred To whatever “funny foreign stuff” Young people seemed to eat these days, she’d heard; Not all the weeks I didn’t come, when she sat Night after night and stared unseeing at The television, at her inner weather, Heaved herself upright, blinked and poured Drink after drink, and gulped and stared – the scotch That, when he was alive, she wouldn’t touch, That was her way to be with him again; Not later in the psychiatric ward, Where she blinked unseeing at the wall, the nurses (Who would steal anything, she said), and dreamt Of when she was a girl, of the time before I was born, or grew up and learned contempt, While the TV in the corner blared To drown some “poor soul’s” moans and curses, And she took her pills and blinked and stared As the others shuffled around, and drooled, and swore… But now she lay here, a thick rubber band With her name on it in smudged black ink was all she wore On the hand I held, a blotched and crinkled hand Whose fingers couldn’t clasp at mine any more Or falteringly wave, or fumble at my sleeve – The last words she had said were Please don’t leave But of course I left; now I was back, though she Could not know that, or turn her face to see A nurse bring the little bag of her effects to me.
I held her hand, which was always marked from cutting and slicing, from the knives lying in wait in the washing-up bowls, which were raw. Her knuckles were red and rough from scrubbing hard at pots, pans, cups, and plates, showing love the only way she knew how, in each cheap piece of meat, in roast and stew, the old-fashioned food she made and we ate. I noticed they had taken off her rings, the rings she once kept in her dressing-table drawer with old photos and long-forgotten things (perfume bottles, tortoise-shell combs, a photo or two from when we went on a holiday “abroad”), but recently she always wore them, as if she wanted everyone to know she was his wife, only now that he was dead. And her watch? – A classic ladies’ model with a gold strap – it was gone, and I’d never seen her without it, not in all the years they sat together watching soaps and game shows I didn’t like, and not when it was my turn to cook for her, chops or chicken pieces, English and plain, familiar tastes she said she liked instead of the “funny foreign stuff” young people seemed to eat these days, she’d heard. Not all the weeks I didn’t visit, when she sat night after night and stared blankly at the television, at her inner thoughts, got herself up, blinked and poured drink after drink, and gulped and stared – the whiskey that, when he was alive, she wouldn’t drink, that was her way to be with him again. Not later in the psychiatric ward, where she blinked blankly at the wall, the nurses (who would steal anything, she said), and dreamt of when she was a girl, of the time before I was born, or grew up and learned contempt, while the TV in the corner blared to drown some “poor soul’s” cries and curses, and she took her pills and blinked and stared as the others shuffled around, and drooled, and swore… But now she lay here, a thick rubber band with her name on it in smudged black ink was all she wore on the hand I held, a blotched and wrinkled hand whose fingers couldn’t hold mine anymore or weakly wave, or fumble at my sleeve – the last words she had said were “Please don’t leave.” But of course I left; now I was back, though she could not know that, or turn her face to see a nurse bring the little bag of her belongings to me.