An Ending

Yesterday began with a 6am phone call- never a good sign and sure enough it was sad news: my eldest sister had died, aged 81. I had been to say goodbye the day before so it wasn’t that her death was unexpected, just that it was, as it always is, too soon. I had meant to start my 2026 posts with something vaguely positive and full of resolution but Tina’s passing has upended things. I am the youngest of five siblings; two of them are now deceased and I am very conscious that the survivors have just taken a step closer to the front of the queue.

My other sister and I visited her in the summer and I wrote this poem for her. Dementia is a hard and strange disease but I was struck then by how happy she was. She spent her days drifting from lounge to lounge looking for an audience to sing to. She had an amazing voice which was strong to the end. A real diva. It was moving to hear.

We Visit Our Sister In Her Care Home

She does not know our names,

has lost her memory of the family face -

the cheekbones, our thick and wiry hair.

She welcomes our embraces though,

returns the hugs.

She has become a bird,

her past solidity gone.

Her smile is broad now, heartfelt;

the bitterness that used to pull

the lines around her mouth has become

sweet.

She has forgotten the story of her life.

We try to tell it to her.

She does not listen, but offers us instead

a song.

Tina was the sister who saved me. When I was little she was, to all intents and purposes my mother, comforting me, reading to me, making doll’s clothes for my favourite doll. She left to marry when I was 6. Later, when my pHD funding fell through and I fell apart she brought me to Dorset. I never left. If she hadn’t shown me that kindness I wouldn’t have met my husband and although I might have had children with someone else, they would not of course have been my gorgeous sons. I would have had a completely different life.

So this post is my thank you to my sister. I wrote the second poem after saying goodbye. It’s not polished but it is what it is. It is a privilege to be able to sit with someone for a while as they leave the world.

Saying Goodbye

She is, already,

a momento mori of herself,

mouth open, eyes closed,

bones visible beneath the skin.

Her arms are so thin now!

I watch the effortful movement

of her diaphragm,

count the seconds

between breaths;

understand

this is her final scene;

there will be no encore.