I’ve a picture of mother when she was forty,
she looks young and radiant,
had just met the man of her life.

I was fifteen at the time
and thought she looked old,
not to mention her new lover
who seemed ancient at forty-five.

When eighty
she looked younger than her years
never wore glasses
had a razor sharp mind
and smiled to the world.

When her lover died
she lost the zest for life,
aged before my eyes,
didn’t eat
looked inwards
and died a little old lady.