She smells of beeswax, always
has, really, and it’s all-too-easy to remember.
She used to give you honeycomb to eat
Go on dear, she’d say, It’s good for you
and then she’d laugh,
and you’d laugh too.

She looks smaller then before, tiny and wrinkled
and delicate.
She's lost weight.

She’s surrounded by her family, although not some.
Charlie’s missing, Charlie who always seemed older then her
and was
Charlie, who died slowly, one inch at a time.
Charlie, who cried when you came to visit because he couldn’t move
speak, or touch your hair.
He’s upset today, love, she used to say, Maybe you ought to go see your mother.
So you did.

Raymond, too.
Raymond’s not here, but then,
you don’t miss him.

Raymond was her son, but he was not your family.
You saw him hit her when he was drunk, and you
cried out;
Stop it!
and your dog barked and barked and Raymond turned around and then
he kicked your dog, lit a cigarette and left.

That was Raymond.

But the rest of her family is here, and laughing,
smiling at her face and showing her photographs of a better time.
Your mother is telling a story and you,
you are at the back because you can’t seem to make your feet move forward.

She’s dying, they tell you. Not much longer.

She doesn’t look like she’s dying, and that makes it worse.
She looks like she always has, bright and happy
and gentle, except she’s lost a bit of weight.
But that’s the only difference, so you pretend that you were never here and you run away.
You run to the car, and you cry, because saying goodbye will make it real
and you want it to be a dream.

She dies.

You never did say goodbye.