My Santiago

In those last years,

You opened the door and hugged me,

With that characteristic rigid armed hug of yours,

But soon after,

When I bent over,

You astutely (gleefully even) pointed out my bald spot;

Never being one to mince words.

There are moments,

That creep up on me – never diminished despite time’s passing,

When I feel the pain of loss – never seeing – never speaking – never touching,

But I imagine that dying is somewhat

like living far away,

In another state, another continent,

Conversations intermittent,

Skyping, but still not feeling the touch,

The being there-ness of the person.

I’ll have to settle for that,

I guess…

So, there then, Mum,

Let’s put it down thus;

My conversations continue,

I talk and you listen,

And then you talk back to me,

Through guises, only too blind if I refuse to see.

So that nether region of death has pain,

Because it makes it less convenient

to simply reach out and touch, hold, speak, laugh, listen,