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Mother's cardigan.


My mother's cardigan
Still hangs on the back of her chair,
A fluffy pink confection
Of kitten-soft mohair,
Crafted by her own hands fair.

Seventeen years have come
And gone, nearly, since she passed on;
But there is not a day,
I do not think of her
Not one that I do not remember,

Close my eyes and visualise
Her needles clacking, glasses slipping
Down her nose,
Brow furrowed, counting rows
Of plain-and-purl stitches.

Tell us a story, we'd say
She'd sigh, toss aside her pattern,
Take off her specs and begin:
'One dark and stormy night
Three robbers went into a cave,

Tell us a story, one said,
So Jack began: One dark and stormy
Night, three robbers went into a cave...'
Not that one, we'd scream.
She couldn't continue for laughing.

In those awful, tearful days
After cancer stole her away,
I would lie quiet on her bed,
Wrap the cardigan around my head
And breathe in the scent of her.

Yardley's Lily of the Valley,
French Fern, and the sweet taste of Gardenia.
Gradually, the perfumes slipped away
Like memories fading to sepia.
Often, I forget the garment's still there

Draped over that chair,
Waiting for her; but I know
We will never forget,
Never stop missing,
Never, ever, stop loving,
My mother.

Learn more about this author, Bob Mundle.
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