History is bunk some one said.
History is an interpretation of
the past said another. Yesterday
is a lost land to Mother. Her half

blind eyes scan him and she says
who are you? He informs her,
but she is none the wiser. She just
smiles and looks away. Maybe she’ll

remember him another day.
Nine months she carried him
within her womb. Her first born
whom she tended, fed and bred

and suckled, whom she nearly lost,
but saved and thought of in her
unclouded days. Dribble hangs
about her lips. Her words come

jumbled as if she pulled them
randomly from a box without
knowing or looking. Some days
they make sense; others, not.

Years ago she’d talk of art or
music or how to behave in a
certain way with a ladylike
manner in her stance or walk.

Now she sits most days in her
special chair. Her blue white eyes
in vacant stare. But he loves her
none the less. Still gives her

the honour due, gazes into
her eyes. Thinking that somewhere
within or beyond his Mother lies.