Katrina Naomi

for Marisa Foz del Barrio You divorced on the first day it was legal, were imprisoned three times as a Communist under Franco, still dyed your hair blonde and – at the age I am now – still lived with your parents’ bourgeois furniture (those impossible beds), the drapes and porcelain from another era, one you’d rebelled against but kept close by, as if to understand yourself better. I think of you sitting under your father’s army awards, a carpet-style brocade over the table and over your knees, a lamp at your feet, like an old woman, your rollie constantly giving up in the green ash tray. And me, curled on the stiff sofa, trying to follow every word – you never spoke in English, never explained.

that’s what she said. Of course, I begin to find fault: a shrub partly obscures the view, there’s a glint of car windows and, if I listen hard enough, I sense the thrum of traffic. I’ll admit the colours are strong, mid-summer: yellows of wheat-fields, oaky greens, and the hills’ hazed blue. A single cloud hovers off-centre, elders waft, sheep bleat, swallows jaunt. Yes, it’s lovely. But the Best View?     It’s like someone telling you their top three films. You’ll disagree. Instantly. Plus, there isn’t a river, the valley could be deeper, the blue bluer.

She’s meant to be good with words, used to medicating others with a timely postcard — FABULOUS WOMAN YOU! Today she can’t find it in herself to buy, let alone send, A SISTER IS WORTH A THOUSAND FRIENDS. If only she knew the right phrase, the sort other people have stored in their mouths, like a kindly tongue.    Cards as commands, white and black shouts on a carousel, IT’S CHOCOLATE O’CLOCK The shopkeeper can’t find it in herself to say good morning, even in lower case, as she heaves her cleavage about by the till.

What did you know of love? You, who slept in a separate bed, separate room, who knew nothing of us. You told me to let him be, let him get on with it, let him alone. You gave me your harshest advice, told me what you’d done after Grandpa was discharged from the Navy; hiding from the merest sound, from you. You made me hear every whistle and blast of your advice. And I never thanked you.