I watch her a lot, we both do. She seems fragile yet strong. Like iron in mind perhaps and tender in body. She is over a hundred after all and yet she still walks around the estate every day, her heels rolling over the edges of her shoes, leaning on her stick, that same rain mac on whatever the weather. I watched her the other day. I was lying on the ground in the car park reading and trying to get a bit of sun-warmth out of the wind and I heard her walk by on her way to the wasteland that we call our garden. She sits there every day on a pile of discarded fencing. She perches on the end her hands on her knees and mostly drops off, occasionally raising her head only to let it fall again. That day I heard her talking to herself. I couldn’t hear the words, perhaps she was praying. I think of her and wonder what she thinks about. Her end must be near and that makes her sanctified in my eyes. I called out to her as she passed by on her way back but she didn’t hear or see me. She cannot. Both those faculties are going or have virtually gone. She doesn’t know me. She asks him what my name is all the time. Is she your wife? she says. I dreamt of her last night. I was holding her hand. It felt young and vital. And I was glad of it.
