I imagine you
on a stool,
not a chair,
always a stool,
by a window
smiling
as you watch us
from heaven,
I imagine you
on a stool,
not a chair,
with gentle curls in your hair
and a cardigan for comfort
and a slice of fruit cake,
nothing fancy,
with some butter
watching us
down below
from somewhere above
from somewhere beyond,
rolling your eyes
as our dramas unfold,
tiny little dramas,
family filled dramas,
nothing different,
nothing changed,
like the stool in the kitchen
where I cook now
in your kitchen,
your stool in the kitchen
where once you sat
watching us all,
the comedy of us all,
the tears of us all,
the joy of us all,
altogether,
all the time,
all talking
at the same time,
I imagine you
listening,
perhaps dosing a little
at our delirious dilemmas,
I imagine you listening
and then smiling a little
from up there or over there,
just a touch beyond our skin,
just a breath beyond the breeze,
and then saying our name
so its echo can catch a wing
and sail down to earth,
down to us all,
while you watch
from the stool
from the window
just above
with love…
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
In remembrance of Nana Francis Donnelly, 8 years absent from vision but not from heart.
Damien B. Donnelly 