When she realises, the figure approaching her bed,
is attached to a voice she recognises.
I get a mother’s, smile, wide, warm and welcoming.
My mum is blind but sees I’ve left a door open.
I have plans
My mum is deaf but relays all the gossip of the ward
She chirrups and chatters like a budgie,
hopping from mirror to bell, to mirror
and back to bell.
I have things to do
I knew I wasn’t going to die in the operating theatre.
I woke up and saw a clock, and thought
I must be alive as heaven or hell
would have no need of clocks.
I have plans.
At 92 my mum is propped up by a snow drift of pillows
her hair, white, shines like a halo in a medieval painting
She lies, arm straight out, palm up (no sign of stigmata)
connected to a series of plastic bags.
I have things to do
Antibiotics, pain killers and food are being absorbed
Her decades old infrastructure, cope with
the Timothy Leary School motto made real.
Turn on , tune in and drop out.
I have plans
If I sold this on the street, she says, I could make some money
The nurse, checking the drips, is unsure of her response
Is mum is making a joke or
proposing a business deal?
I have things to do
Her face, a landscape of wrinkles, fissures and cracks
a legacy of memories from spring and summer
to autumn and winter repeated again and again.
In a kindly light there is wisdom, life, experience and joy
but of late, just after sunset, there is a tiredness and fatigue
a lengthening and darkening of unsettling shadows.
I have plans
Names, dates and places are fired at me with confidence
Aunts, Uncles, family plots, feuds and distant cousins
are all discussed and judged.
It’s a cinematic style review
I have things to do
Not only can she recall the original film
she knows the sequels, the spin-offs,
and all the shows she’s starred in.
or perhaps directed.
I have plans
Comedies, tragedies, rom-coms, action-packed thrillers
and ordinary, TV soap opera fare,
flicker and fade projected from her life
Secretly, I worry over where I parked the car.
I have things to do
All this time, Mum has hold of my hand.
She gives it a firm squeeze and tugs me in close
I’m six years old and we’re rushing, late for school.
I’m worried. I get a reassuring look
I have plans, She says
I have things to do.