SECOND WAVE

We planned to mark her birthday –

and visit her in her filing cabinet,

with its gracious gardens,

dim corridors of old-aged aromas

of faeces and this morning’s food,

groans and occasional cries from rooms.

This place had been her home

since her vision failed

four summers past.

There was nothing that grandma Jenkins didn’t see

despite her blindness, sensing precisely

changes in size and shape of family members,

alterations in tone of voice and itemising these

with the wit of wicked teasing

shifting the focus from herself

onto others to whom she had donated

genetic material, across three generations.

When we bade farewell,

her face – half smile, half sad – 

was a picture of the reverie of age.

Outside the littlest of our clan waved

goodbye, through her window

a gesture relayed to her by a carer:

she smiled and returned the sign.

Weeks later we returned

when the plague was active

and the filing cabinet was locked.

We could not visit or touch

and were confined outside.

She had the virus and was teetering,

short of breath and weak. 

We mourned among ourselves:

then the littlest who had waved before

wanted to wave again. This was arranged.

Soon to depart for other worlds,

grandma Jenkins was supported by a carer in a space suit.

A weak hand appeared at the window

together with a faint smile.

“That was my second wave!” the little one exclaimed,

in triumph as we drove home.