Anne Kenny

Losing Her

Out having coffee and a sandwich, she pushes around bits of onion, pulls faces, looks up, laughing. Still playful at eighty-eight. Lucid at times. You're lucky to have all your faculties, she tells me. I try to lighten the sadness, using a babble of words, as though we've invented a new language. We laugh together at the absurdity. Later, walking towards the home, she whispers, 'It won't be long now.'

evening shadows –
our arms linked
not wanting to let go