And what remains of love is this;
a pack of jelly babes.
“Give these to your mum,” he says,
and turns away to shield
Fifty four sweets are in that bag;
one for each year of coloured days.
This one tastes of ’65,
that one of ’91 –
“She still likes these, sometimes,” he says,
“as far as I can tell.”
She takes one more, unsmiling,
and heads towards the door,
of who she is or who we are,
or why these little bumpy things
still seem to mean so much to us
and feel so warm and moist,
defining something once well known
she feels is lost or yet to come,
but will not find her now.
There must be something new
Across the room the curtains close,
and in the fading evening light,
a single jelly baby lies
alone; her lover’s furious final wail –
Jelly babies are traditional English sweets. People with dementia seem to like sweets.
Posted on d’Verse Open Link night.