Firstly a sort of apology, i know i post every week promising more posts and never actually get round to fulfilling this but the last 3 weeks have been super hectic! what with uni and course reading and then just when you think youve got a second to yourself some one bursts through your bedroom door, scaring the life out of you i might add. Blogging is something i keep private no one knows i do this so i like to be sure im not get caught! Its my little secret.
So you may be wondering how come im certain its safe to soul, well im at home, actual home. Ive been here since saturday. Its nice been back but i go home tomorrow.
The reason im here? My gran died.
My gran from my mothrs side, who has had alzheimers and not known who i was since i was a little girl. Im not very good at emotionally describing this cos it's something that ive cut myself off from over the years. It was too hard to think of the old lady sat in a chair or unable to get out of bed, muttering to herself as a part of me. I have of course been upset, she was my gran and i do have a vague memory of the real her, but more than anything its relief.
Relief that she is in a better place, her soul back her body back and her husband.
Also relief that my mum no longer has to feed her own mum, worry about the finance for her care and see the woman who brought her up detiorate any further.
So as a tribute to my mothers mother im re-posting a poem i put up a month or so back, some have you have already read it, but it seems kinda fitting, and is much easier for me (emotionally not in terms of effort) to show you all how i felt.
The sheets are clearly not clean
stained beyond my eyes
I can not see the dirt and filth
only my Mother’s Mother can.
She see's much more than you and I,
That’s why she washes all day.
Perhaps its preparation -
a ridding of the sins.
The filth is so real
Water, not holy, has no effect,
Her mind is clear
In its haze.
She mutters only to you,
Our Father,
but I do not see your presence here,
I wonder maybe if her mutterings
are past even your comprehension.
But there is one thing I understand,
that look in her eye's
as she looks into mine,
a moment of clarity that can not be expressed.
Maybe it is because she see's herself in me
just like the others do,
or maybe it is frustration
perhaps she knows she is beyond my reach.
There is nothing for her to do,
but rub those blankets clean,
and wipe those bars on her bed,
and call to Him for help.
Questions go unanswered,
who knows if you remember me
or playing horsey on your knee,
Today, you don’t even sing.
So perhaps he will take you soon,
this room - your purgatory,
or perhaps your faith is failing
as you say "I do not want to go"
