Analisi poetica

on her blindess adam thorpe My mother could not bear being blind, to be honest. One shouldn’t say it. One should hide the fact that catastrophic handicaps are hell; one tends to hear, publicly from those who bear it like a Roman, or somehow find joy in the fight. She turned to me, once, in a Paris restaurant, still not finding the food on the plate with her fork, or not so that it stayed on (try it in a pitch-black room) and whispered, “It’s living hell, to be honest Adam. If I gave up hope of a cure, I’d bump myself off.” I don’t recall what I replied, but it must have been the usual sop, inadequate: the locked-in son. She kept her dignity, though, even when bumping into walls like a dodgem; her sense My mother could not bear being blind, to be honest. One shouldn’t say it. One should hide the fact that catastrophic handicaps are hell; one tends to hear, publicly from those who bear it like a Roman, or somehow find joy in the fight. She turned to me, once, in a Paris restaurant, still not finding the food on the plate with her fork, or not so that it stayed on (try it in a pitch-black room) and whispered, “It’s living hell, to be honest Adam. If I gave up hope of a cure, I’d bump myself off.” I don’t recall what I replied, but it must have been the usual sop, inadequate: the locked-in son. She kept her dignity, though, even when bumping into walls like a dodgem; her sense of direction did not improve, when cast inward. “No built-in compass,” as my father

joked. Instead, she pretended to ignore the void, or laughed it off.

Or saw things she couldn’t see and smiled, as when the kids would offer

the latest drawing, or show her their new toy – so we’d forget, at times, that the long,

slow slide had finished in a vision as blank as stone. For instance, she’d continued

to drive the old Lanchester long after it was safe

down the Berkshire lanes. She’d visit exhibitions, admire films, sink into television

while looking the wrong way. Her last week alive (a fortnight back)

was golden weather, of course, the autumn trees around the hospital ablaze with colour, the ground royal with leaf-fall. I told her this, forgetting, as she sat too weak to move, staring at nothing. “Oh yes, I know,” she said, “it’s lovely out there.” Dying has made her no more sightless, but now she can’t pretend. Her eyelids were closed in the coffin; it was up to us to believe she was watching, somewhere, in the end