mdm

Once upon a quiet summers evening   - a car drops   me at the glass doors with the tinkling chimes. I carry freshly plucked Marguerite from  furze yellow hedges around  ridged chocolate fields. I'm balancing  ice-cream wrapped in a deli-foil bag to keep cold so I open the door to my Mother’s room with my chin. A   pretty blonde woman in a blue tabard is kneeling on the floor,    both of my Mother’s hands in hers, craning upwards to see the face under the flopping fringe. -           Kin you tell me if there is anythink I can do for you ? She speaks with an accent that I've become familiar with, although one is never sure if it is Croatian, Polish, or Lithuanian. I am at pains to mark my territory, and inform this stranger that my Mother does not, cannot speak. I throw the flowers onto the patchwork quilt and make a production about getting a vase, a saucer and spoon. How very dare she -   I wonder and stalk   up the miles of carpeted hallway   saluting an