Competition

Third Prize

Her Memory Gone
by Nicola Harris

I have walked this dusty path,
Maybe one thousand times before,
The walk seems to take longer this time,
I wish I didn't have to do this,
I don't want to see her,
Frail and hunched,
Not her usual vibrant self,

I remember when she gave me books,
Books she used to read from,
Her eyes would light up,
Remembering the students,
She had taught all those years ago,
The times she went to watch tennis,
Played every Sunday afternoon,
On that red earth court,
Newspaper clippings,
Curling with age,
Display my great uncle's victories,
On Speedway , all those years ago,

My grandfather and my uncle,
Look after her farm now,
My cousin mows her lawn,
His white blonde hair,
Flashing like a beacon,
As blade after blade falls,
It's hard to believe,
She outlived her eldest son,
Killed in a tragic accident,
In his early twenties,

I can see the house now,
The green and white blending,
With the gnarled trees that surround it,
Not much further now,
I walk as slowly as possible,
Circling,
Gazing at the land around me,
To the east,
My uncle's land,
I can just see,
Down by the creek,
My three cousins, playing,
Too young to understand,
To the south,
As far as the eye can see,
My grandfather's land,
His tractor chugs softly,
Somewhere behind the house,

I have reached the gate,
"Schultz" it says,
Four generations have opened this gate,
I walk the path slowly,

I can see her, sitting out in the sun,
She barely recognises me,
But smiles and kisses my cheek,
She asks about school,
Fine, always fine,
Comments on the weather,
Dry and hot,
Same as the many conversations,
We've had,
Warns me to look both ways,
Before crossing the road,
I've heard this since I was young,
But I nod and smile,
A short visit,
Two minutes at the most,
But painful,
Seeing her like this,

As I leave,
I think,
How lucky I am,
To have a great-grandmother,
Still alive,
But,
I would rather cry at her grave,
Than see her,
Bent with age,
Her spark gone,
Her fantastic mind, lost,
Her memory gone.