The wax on the wall
 
One day, when I am old
Someone will move the piano
Because I have moved on.
 
“Oh”  they will say,
“What’s that on the wall?”
and peering close they will
see it’s wax, purple wax
dribbled down the wall.
 
And no-one will be there to recall
why the wax is on the wall.
To tell the story of how we all
for years and years
came together
to share the unfolding of our lives.
Eating together the meals cooked
on busy Saturdays
when the kids were small,
or how we chose our recipes
on tired evenings
in the middle of our lives
and how we told our truths and
lived our fears
and loved for all those years.
 
No–one will be there to remember
the milestones covered by tablecloths
through the Valentines and Halloweens
and Christmases of our gatherings,
The rush of evening air through the opened door
as friends arrived
making the candles dance
through time.
 
Someone will scrape the wax off the wall
and paint over the stain,
not knowing how we laughed
as I blew the candle out
tipping the metal holder,
spilling the wax down the back of the piano.
Not knowing how you held me close and said
“no-one will see it, we never move the piano,”
Never knowing that you made me feel like molten wax.
 

Wendy Bowers
21.10.18
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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