in the sun in a garden

The house was locked on all sides
Four windows and two doors
She never leaved

She is overwhelmed by the guilt of being sun-drenched
The same sun that did not shine on her silver hairs
which were on occasions combed back by her little helping hands

No one took the trouble of buying a wheelchair
Down from six short flights of stairs
Forty-eight steps
She was not worth their time
And the little her was a wimp for not insisting
Knowing that the silver-haired was only too kind to be of burden to any

The exceptional thing that she demanded was being placed on the balcony
To see her little girl off well after she had disappeared from the corner
It was an established routine
In her bid to savour every bit of the visit
Sorrow was caused with innocence to her young heart
But for that the old lady must be forgiven

Life in a square box is a cheat
She is awake to the fact that she is not reliving it for her
She has a voice, an able body, an ideal husband, ample love
and a plan for better things
And above all, that seafood stew in a slow-cooking clay pot
would certainly smell strange in the dusk of those mountains

In her life in the house
She plays Scrabble Solitaire
listens to jazz in early morning
and reads novels on the lounge

Days are identical to the point of fakery
Except at night she dreams about wheeling her around in the garden
so many times and in varying versions
as if that is the only thing that has really happened
For the warmth of the sun on their shoulders feels very good