My Mother's Mother

[heslopian]

I remember you chuckling happily when
I confessed to seeing you
not as the knitting type -
"an old woman's habit" I said.
You thanked me for the compliment.
But "old" and "young", or "middle-aged",
are useless words in tandem with you.

You exist outside of time to me,
those always knowing eyes,
brutally efficient, like knives,
framed in glass,
an ancient map.

You of the solemn advice:
"take walks in the morning.
Eat fresh fruit.
Look at these purple flowers,
how the sun hits them each day."

You of the chiding tenderness,
the feigned offence at my humour,
sitting by the porch table,
as your lame-eyed, ageing cat
prowls for scraps between our chairs.