Dear Nana —

I was just four

when you went to Heaven.

How could you leave me 

so tightened down, 

so shrunk …

so cold my air,

so strange and fogged 

my home garden

in which I wandered

every step uncertain,

missing your held hand

your warm contralto laugh?

I still remember

the songs and tales

in that haven, your lap.

How did you change

to a white lump

in the hospital —

in the high bed

where I could not reach you

and you were so silent?

I hung my head,

gave silence back.

You were Florence,

daughter of Jane

the famous beauty.

My aunts remembered her.
To me, beauty was you —

old fat woman from India.

Your long hair

brushed out for bed 

unfurled like a princess’s

all down your back.

Then you rewound it,

plaited and coiled

as your crown.

I tried to find

your big hotel

on Puri beachfront,

your life before:

the life of the stories.

I travelled all that way —

the other side of the world —

old woman myself by then.

Nana, where were you?

Without your old photos 

from the family album

I couldn’t be sure.

Hotelier, hospital matron,

young mother, wronged lover —

these I knew not.

In the apple orchard

trailed by your dogs,

and the birds lilting,

I place you forever:

in Spreyton, Tasmania.

From the cottage doorway

you smile welcome

— dear Nana.