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The Date She Died

A blur of memories glimpsed - through striations of dirt on a taxi window,

Standing at the bus stop In the cold and rain. Waiting for our number to appear again, ‘I’ll light a cigarette,’ she’d say, ‘and then the bus will come. ’Then she’d be forced to put it out with a finger and a thumb.

A snippet of conversation overheard, about elderly couples – One never lasts long when the other is gone.

She’d say things like; worse things happen at sea, It’s all part of life’s rich tapestry, Did I forget to mention – the road to hell is paved with lots of good intention. ’She said, She wasn’t afraid of death, But she didn’t believe in God She never swore - apart from ‘sod’. And that Jesus was a man like any other.

Lying in the hospital bed She demanded cups of tea and biscuits, while making lists of birthdays for the coming month, I don’t know the date she died but that cousin will never receive a card from me.

Waiting at the corner for a different kind of bus. No cigarettes lit this time, she wouldn’t want a fuss. Just a bunch of tulips, to decorate her ride. She liked to keep things simple. I don’t know the date she died.

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