She is

Rebecca Martel

Not the incomprehensible babble of confusion
Not the vacancy of eyes that cannot sense the sights before them Nor the fear, the knowledge of a grasp slipping away
Unrecognising, unclear, out of reach
She is the sweet smell of her skin, of powder and soap
The smile that plays on soft lips that once kissed
The children she bore and raised
Her hair so carefully placed with pride
Not the shell, gently washed and clothed and prepared
For the visitors that shake their heads with 'do you remember when..'

 

Nor the regiment of pills that slow down, control, speed up but cannot release
She is the light inside, she is within
The legacy of her very self now borne to the next.

 

The music she carries, the pictures that they see in a room or a tree
The feel of her hand tightly clasping theirs, fingers that gently wiped their tears
Once Child into Mother and Mother into Child
Do not speak, what use are words
A look, a touch, to be
Still
She is still there.