Debbie Robson
She asks. As if she has washed up
on a deserted beach and I have
thrashed through the wilderness
to reach her. Instead of this resting
place with bingo, dominoes and carers
sporting pineapples, tigers and native
flora and fauna. And then there is the
mystery of houses. There was her house
she thought was mine and now there’s
this house with lots of people. At least
some know about the fallibility of
her brain and are not fazed by strange
unanswerable questions, like I am –
such as: How am I ever going to be
able to forgive myself for putting her
in this place that she is pleased I
can find. She marvels at imagined
distances, deciding I must have been
driving for days instead of minutes.
Stopped at a hotel by a highway just
as we stayed overnight in our caravan,half a century ago. But as long as she’shappy, I’m happy to be her sister or
granddaughter or that stranger she
can’t quite recognise. Whoever I
am, at least she still smiles at me.
losing our grip on purpose 