ON BATHING MY MOTHER



She steps over the edge of the bath, heaving the left leg slowly, bending it at the knee, gripping the rail when the right leg follows, to sit then on a high stool while I squeeze warm water over her. Her back stirs me a memory. It is the same back, her back, in a navy blue swim suit with low, scooped straps, the slight lean forward, the bow and curve, the moles and freckles. But now there are many more with vivid sun mottling and there are folds, drooping between the arm and the breast. The shape, the hue, it is the same back as I, a child, remember on a thirty ish woman; calling out with pleasure as the cold, Welsh sea came up to meet her.

BEATING THE DOGS

The black dogs had been threatening again, like an inevitable February mantle. When they come it is as though I see and hear the world with heavy wax in my ears. Sensation or experience become distant, earplugged. And this affliction I have passed to my dearest son who suffers like a male; unwilling to share his anxiety and misery with his friends. He pretends and then opens like a wound amongst this close family.

Now that the worst is over, for the time being anyway, I have travelled south by train from London. Via Lille, Lyon, Valence, Narbonne I watched the spring speed up from the train window. Memorable were the swags of violet Wisteria climbing up a tall Cypress. As were the deep magenta flowered Judas trees, the Cercis. Here in the foothills of the Pyrenees, mine are yet in bud, waiting ….But a small tree, a Sophora that I planted nearly 9 years ago is in full yellow flower. Exotic, hanging clusters of golden, whiskered, bell like and lipped blooms have braved the late, sustained winter and are covering the stunted, wizened branches of this Chinese miracle. The plums and pears and cherries blossom anyways, mindless of the unappealing weather.