She had a picture <br />of herself <br />in her head <br />the one her Mum <br />always treasured <br /> <br />in the big family <br />album <br />the one when she was 2 <br />held by disembodied hands <br />on a disembodied knee <br />her mum always laughing <br />telling her how <br /> <br />she had weed down <br />her uncle’s knee <br />and he in his nice new suit. <br />She has no memory of this but <br />she had been told this so often <br />it was as if she remembered it <br />herself. <br />It was someone else’s memory. <br />“You was glowering <br />at the camera <br /> <br />like you was Winston Churchill <br />all you needed was a big fat cigar <br />in your little kisser <br />and you was him <br />giving the famous fingers! ” <br />She always thought <br />she looked <br />like an ugly pug. <br />“Happy 92! ” <br />someone’s scrawl shouted <br />from a cheap card <br />by the bedside locker <br />in the nursing home <br /> <br />that wasn’t the home <br />she knew. <br />You can’t mislay <br />a home now <br />...can you? <br />And who were <br />all these strangers <br />waltzing in and out <br />of her house <br />traipsing about <br />like nobody’s business. <br />The wilted flowers <br />in the chipped vase <br />smiling weakly.<br /><br />Dónall Dempsey<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/nobody-s-business/
