No More Time
By Edwina Maria Thompson
Those fateful words hung in the air,
“You’re now on borrowed time.”
No shock she felt, no huge despair,
No death bell or it’s chime.
Of all the things her thoughts to be…
She’d better write a list…
God help them sorting out the house,
It’s then that she’d be missed!
The journey home, they carried on,
With conversations dull.
Much easier to focus on,
The drab and trivial.
But really they were skirting past,
The horror on their minds.
The best way now, to break the news,
To which they were resigned.
Where do you start to tell your kids?
“Your Mummy’s gonna die.”
And find an answer, they’ll accept,
To when they question “Why?”
She couldn’t justify their loss,
And racked her head in vain.
It felt right now, a living hell;
That she would cause their pain.
Her job should be to hold them tight,
And kiss their tears away,
To take their hands and let them know,
That everything’s ok.
To have some fun and sillyness,
Coz childhood goes so fast.
Why should they think or have that fear…
“Is this day Mummy’s last?”
Her thoughts again returned to all,
The little things she did.
No time to waste, get on that list,
Stop being so morbid!
Jot down their favourite songs and games,
Which tv channel’s best,
And how to always keep your cool,
When you’re put to the test!
She thought to make a special box,
Of precious times to keep.
Some photographs and memories,
To make them smile, not weep.
The time when Zoe hid the keys,
And tripped her down the stairs!
How Robin used to love those books,
Of fairies, wolves and bears.
The many holidays they took,
To Lapland, Greece and Spain.
Them climbing up Egyptian hills,
In dusty, hot terrain!
Each memory would hold a note,
Her words of love to them.
At 18, theirs to open up,
Back to her list and household stuff…
(She still did the most part!)
Post-it notes she’d leave in place so,
He’d know where to start…
The thought of leaving him behind,
To mop up from this mess.
He’d been her rock, her saviour through,
This un-ending distress.
His world ahead, a widower,
A single dad, so young!
She hoped his friends delivered with,
The promises they’d sung.
Of course there were some places he,
Could go for grief support.
That’s more things for her growing list,
‘Help’ numbers she could sort!
Why hadn’t this occurred before?
This list would take all year!
And not predicted “weeks or months”,
Those words so crystal clear…
It’s funny how she looked so well,
There’s not a soul would know;
That there was she, that ticking bomb,
All primed and set to blow.