Trying to be Honest
As I look at the petite woman in front of me
Her grey hair thinning
And wrinkles taking hold of her face
It’s her memory that is waning.
Was I a good mum?
She asks; a hopeful expression setting in.
What do I say?
Her adult son, who’s harboured many a resentment.
Do I speak the truth?
Telling her leaving the hubbub
For the idyllic countryside
Isolated me more than I care to remember?
Dressed in M&S
And unbranded trainers
This working class kid
Looking like a snob
Do I remind her, of the sports I played
Those favoured by her partner
No encouragement for what I truly loved.
What about the weekends
Of doing what I was told
Without the promise
Of something I could choose
But more than that
Allowing someone
Who was already cheating
And devising an exit
To shape academic choices
Leaving me filled with regret
I want to say
“You were the best”
And that the above didn’t form me
But that would just be a lie
Instead, I simply say
“Yes, you were a good mum”
It’s still a lie
But one I’ll live with
As the truth no longer has any bearing.