The girl who birthed her, knitted
jackets trimmed with thin, white
ribbon,
embroidered gowns. Stitched
her name
`Anne' into the flannelette.
For weeks after,
she'd kept on coming to the
house,
begging to see her child. Just
once,
to hold her, look at her. Left
behind
a letter blotched, unreadable.
Annie knew nothing. Only that
she'd been
a waitress in a seaside cafe.
So we spent
weekends and holidays drinking
unwanted
milkshakes. Looking for likenesses.
When the law changed she was
given
a bad address in London. High-rise
blocks
with sour stairs, dog shit on
the landings.
Found a thin, tired woman with
limp hair
crying, clutching a crumpled
photograph.
So unlike her they had to be
mistaken.
But then, there was the letter
and the name --
all that grief and twenty five
years distance,
not to be wished away by birthday
or Christmas
cards and the occasional visit.
They sit
politely in a tea shop, neither
family nor friends,
compelled by the ruthless connection
of genes.
© Kathleen Jones
Lancaster Lit Fest Anthology