Mary Lee-Slade
You didn’t know I was looking the night
I saw you naked in the baby bath.
My lungs were full of Scottish sea air and
unable to sleep, I snuck out of bed
and tiptoed to the camper’s stable door.
My stubby fingers clutched the fiberglass
as I took in your sideways-zed-shaped form.
Your hair-covered knees grazed your grizzly beard
and your cracked, tobacco-stained fingers fought
to contain them in the pink plastic mould.
Mum’s cheerful chuckles had tempted me out
from my sleeping bag to investigate.
And there in the torch-lit canvas awning,
hovering over you with a suddy sponge,
her laughter lines carved out her happiness.
You’ll never know how much that moment meant
or how she’ll never smile like that again.