To me as a child you were always small.

I never realised that age and wear

Had worn you down to size.

I noticed so much,

And yet so little.

I remember your soft round face

In a cloud of flour,

As we baked in the tiny kitchen.

The white dust sinking,

To land softly on the creases in your aging skin.

The runs in your stockings

That were always there

The runs in your stockings that never bothered you

But bothered everyone else

As they clucked and tutted

Five minutes before leaving for mass

As they waited while you sorted your stockings out.

And placing the battered plastic curlers in your hair

That silver candy floss

Light and thin

Maybe not always so

But now just enough to do the job.

The smell of  Lavender and Turf smoke

That followed you wherever you went.

The smell that quietly creeps…