He handed the envelope to me this morning,
The young builder, wielding a sledgehammer and a smile.
He found it by chance, without any warning,
Thought it might have been there for a while.

In the crevices of the bricks and mortar he was breaking,
The hammer and muscles bringing the roof down.
Destruction before creation, the new kitchen we were making,
A piece of paper, sepia, against the dusty brown.

I got a fright, I must confess,
As I brushed my teeth this morning.
There you were, in the mirror,
Ma, you popped up without warning.
My greys have merged with yours I see,
My eyes flash the same way too.
The years have smudged my sharp jawline,
And turned me into you.
Folk said how much I looked like you,
I never saw it till just now.

I love this room, she thinks out loud,
it is the nicest in this house.
The floors are swept, the dusting done,
she pauses to adjust her blouse.
Curtains she had washed earlier,
dried soon in the African sun.
Hung back now with help from the boy
and that was one job done.
Fluttering about in mid-day breeze,
the windows framed in lace.
She adjusts the mirror on the wall
and smiles happily at her face.

She takes a last look at the mirror now
and tucks some stray greys into place.
‘There’s nothing much I can do,’ she thinks
about all these lines across my face.
‘Goodluck,’ he calls as she leaves the house
clutching her new leather writing case.
Looking back on her life so far
As the train moves forward, gathering pace.

You burst through the clouds, high on life,
My dashing daddy and your beautiful wife.
A cheer goes up from the gathered crowds,
‘Welcome,’ they cry, ‘now shrug off your shrouds.’
Beaming with joy, you show her around,
this peaceful Haven you both have found.
Family and friends long gone from earth,
come up to you, almost skipping with mirth.
‘Is it always like this?’ Ma asks, holding on to your hand.
You’d arrived two months ago, to survey the land.
‘Yes,’ you reply, ‘but I missed you so.’