Kate Baguley

Margaret

I tell her how pretty she’s looking. Habit. The pink bed jacket is old. Too old to look pretty. The pink stands out against her sunken features. The icy white hair, cut for convenience. She is old. Too old to recognise me. But not too old to laugh when I stick my tongue out at her. She responds in kind. Our game. We giggle. Connected. She tells me she will die soon. However, she has time for tea first. The long dead brother, she tells me, is coming to fetch her. My aching sadness tinged with love. Margaret.

Kate Baguley