Standing outside her house
staring at the water-starved fuchsia 
on her dusty window sill
still clinging onto life with blood-coloured blooms

Until a few weeks ago
she lived here
surrounded by her few possessions
haunted by the memories
of her children
who no longer inhabit this earth.

Her body is frail
and she can no longer live here
My sadness as I look upon her life
is compounded by the sorrow as 
I think about all our lives
that are all eventually reduced to this empty scene.

I am also reminded of the happiness
our short conversations brought me
and, I hope, brought her.
A wealth of special times remembered and recounted
passed on from generation to generation.
A verbal story-telling that we hold deep in our souls
and which we can never unlearn.
Simple words transmitted between two people
and stored away to be retold
to those who want to listen.