The Way I Used to Write (Evelyn)

Evelyn

once was a mother,

and a wife.

She used to be able

to have a shower

and get dressed.

She could do this in a bathroom,

in her house,

on her own.

She used to be able to feel,

when her arm

was hanging down her side

or banging into a wall.

She used to be able to have

a roast dinner

or fish and chips

or a hot milo

whenever she wanted,

though she didn’t often

because she was watching her weight.

She used to make her bed

in the morning

then leave it for the day.

Evelyn

is now stuck

in a hospital room

with a half useless body

and a forgetfulness.

But she can remember

that she misses her husband

and that she loves roast dinners

and Milo

and fish and chips.

She doesn’t know

that her right arm connects to her body

but she knows that she used to

brush her teeth

and comb her hair with it.

Today she sits

waiting for a visit

from anyone with a familiar face.

She sits at the end

of an unmade bed

that she has made and unmade

several times,

with her arm hanging

by her side,

her sling

on the floor

and her dressing gown

over her head

because she’s not quite sure

what she should do with it

or why she picked it up

in the first place.

As I feed her

a tasteless muck

through a hole in her stomach

a tear rolls down her cheek.

She doesn’t know

why she’s teary

but when I ask her

if she misses her husband

she nods

and tells me

never to forget

to tell mine

that I love him.