THE GOOD OVEN *Wattpad Featured* (aka 'Re Ply')

First Day (poem)

they call me to come

and sit around your bed

among your friends

still with you from your school days

they pull up a stool and squeeze me in  at your feet

between two big-hipped women I don't know

my nanna is somewhere else 

in the pecking order

they say I'm pale and give me a glass

like the grey and white-haired ladies

sipping trifle sherry round us

with this week's gossip

so much darts from the corner of the mouth

caught in a twinkle eye

from lips a natural crushed raspberry

with maybe a dusting of powder over noses

give the la'al lass a biscuit

from the kitchen

I help myself to crumbs 

from distant roars of crackled voices

gale on gale laughing

then it's time to put my head in to say thank you

and you nod and half smile

fragile bony frame

head tucked in pillow

another week in bed

in the front room

 that's where they lay them out

 but I don't know that yet

no-one wants to rest

in their front room

later

later

much later

I find out 

what they were laughing about

the women who

from start to finish

oh how we start

and how we finish

that's what makes them laugh

its all so simple

* * *. * * *

nanna - grandmother

sherry - fortified wine in tiny glasses

cooking sherry - cheaper, under kitchen control

trifle - dessert for special occasions, served cold, soaked in sherry in North West England

la'al lass - little girl

* * *  * * *

This describes the tradition of sitting with the sick and dying. People nursed their family at home, and brought beds down from the bedrooms and put them in the front room, so they were not cut off from the family during the day.

Normally, the front room, and indeed the front door, would only be used in exceptional circumstances, lke the visit of the priest, or the watching of the world cup in 1966. In neither case would children go in there, not even to do housework. Piano practice might get you a five minute pass. The piano was always allowed in.

The question arises of when a child should begin to be trained in 'sitting with'. It was actually sitting with the dying, though that was never said. My training began as a normal part of holiday time activity, at around thirteen. The old ladies took me under their wing. They would only let one grandchild at a time go with them. It was part of a rite of passage. They watched over my growing, enquiring discreetly about my paleness, and recommending port (ruby red, and more strongly fortified wine) to give me a stronger colour one time!

It always began with tea and biscuits, brought in on a tray by the family carer, who then was allowed to leave. Maybe one of the few moments of time out in the week. Then, at about half past eleven, patients' energy permitting, it progressed to sherry, the tiniest drop in tiny glasses. Truly a thimble-full, but creating an occasion. By midday, tales told, the women returned to put a meal on the table. Most others never knew they'd been out.

Of course, all could not be said before me, and I got sent out on pretexts. But I found it normal to sit with the dying, and find kind words, and stories, laughing at ourselves and life's silliness, around the sick bed.

They would have trained me later to wash the bodies, with loving remembrances, but the world changed, and hospitals came, and these ways ended. My parents never knew about it. They were not part of it.

These women saw life come and go, often on the same beds, and did not pretend to be more than they were. Simply human.