My mother passed away

years before she died.

At first the dry-rot

was barely noticeable,

a gap here,

a draught there

easily shored up

and forgotten about.

‘My memory’s not what it was,’

she would say.

And then say it again.

She gave away her things

with disregard,

but with them went her past.

And her present.

The twilit rooms of her mind

closed up and were locked,

draped in dust cloths,

peopled only with shadows.

Bare walls, with pictures taken down

or hung askew,

rooms that echoed

with things not heard

Until even the ghosts of her past

were gone.

Stumbling down an endless, empty corridor,

doors slamming shut on either side,

until she trembled

and howled with loneliness.

My mother passed away

years before she died.

I mourned her passing many times.

After spending many years working and living abroad, in China, Hong Kong, Turkey and France, Seonaid Francis currently lives in the Western Isles of Scotland with her husband and three children. She has previously had work published in Scottish literary journals such as New Writing Scotland, Northwards Now, In On the Tide and Valve Journal and takes much of her inspiration from the landscape of the Hebrides and the complexities of life there.

She also runs ThunderPoint Publishing, which publishes both fiction and non-fiction.