Infinite Endings

I kept all of the things you gave me, over time. A pewter
jewellery box, a necklace of Indian silver inside it, a woollen scarf
you started (that I never finished), your letters, written on
sheets of sturdy paper that folded into their own envelopes,
bordered with little diagonal blue lines which made it seem like

they were from very far away. That trick you did when we were little,
folding your whole ear into itself until it sprung open again, which
you pretended was on your command, the smell of the bread
you would make when we came to stay, plaited into pretty little rolls.
The way you filled the room - laughingly, insistently, and beautifully.

The last time I saw you, a bony white goat, with newbornlike eyes,
legs rusted stiff with age, overwhelmed by the chair you sat in,
you recognised the sound of love in my voice, and smiled, and held my hand,
and said, approximately, the right things. Like mine, your neurons are endlessly
unfolding, hollowing, dissolving. Our goodbyes are meaningless, and infinite.

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This poem was highly commended for Poetry Object 2015

Judge's Notes:
"This poem is full of things that fold up into other things: a necklace in a box, letters in their envelopes, bread plaited into rolls, and even an ear that folds up into itself. This poem has folded images of memory and forgetting subtly into its narrative, prompting the reader repeatedly to open images out and close them up again. This is what gives such power to the ending: ‘Like mine, your neurons are endlessly/ unfolding, hollowing, dissolving. Our goodbyes are meaningless, and infinite.’ This poem fits images and narrative and phrases together; in poetry such craft reflects a mature and coherent vision."
~Lisa Gorton, Poetry Object Judge 2015