i.m. my mother When I think of you resting in that sunny sitting room it is always late afternoon. Leaf shadows from the garden are moving on the wall and on a table near you stands a pot of white azalea. Light is spread on the polished floor, motes hang in the air. A chink of tea-cups pushed aside and we fall silent. That time of many conversations is long gone. We tried hard to shed reserve, you dying, I still hoping you were not. Now that I lie in convalescent ease remote from household noise, leaf shadows on…