Truce Copyright © Sally Gardner 2011

I never really liked the smell of you
when youʼd smoked a cigarette,
it seemed incongruous blended with
the French perfume emanating from your neck.
I never really liked the smell of you
when youʼd been drinking wine and whiskey.
It meant you would discuss a point of view
as if to someone whose dialect was foreign.
I said Iʼd never take a boyfriend home
after you embarrassed me the teenager.
I am sensitive I know, I always will be,
you were rude and always could be,
manipulative and best avoided.
I hated how my stomach tangled
at the thought of duty visits.
At fifty-two I still anticipated
disciplinary action
for not including you.

That morning at five,
after youʼd been hospitalised,
I felt your need and drove those miles.
I didnʼt want you scared — alone.
I sat in peace — creamed frail skin,
brushed thinned hair and rubbed your
naked feet with perfumed oil,
without response,
no reprimand.