The Gift (for Isabelle Claire 16/5/2013)   We took our baby to meet her. My senile grandmother, lumped in a corridor of that home, reached like a bare twig, at this thing that seemed quite beyond her, the cocoon which was your mother, stroking, smiling, not really knowing what it was she held. And your mother, so profoundly asleep, as you are now, never knowing that moment either.   In that half-hour, among the factory noise of that place, that woman, who in part, passed on this equivocal gift, and your mother, met and touched.   Down the corridor there…