Hermetically sealed in that small room,
we enmeshed ourselves around you,
surrounded
you with our familiar noise,
forestalling
the encroaching gloom from entering
that strange
white womb from which we knew
no birth or
life would come.
And you lay
central,
still,
with your
question mark scar and gentle frown,
in a gown of
blue and yellow,
on sheets
that weren’t meant to be yours.
Face turned
away from the door,
your soft,
shallow breathing an underscore,
as triangles
of bright red paper -
the
children’s cards -
with love
for you scrawled hard, in felt tip pen,
hung like
flags from the drip stand,
fluttering
with each slow turn of the fan.
The world
outside no longer existed
as we
persisted with our resistant vigil,
and time
expanded into emptiness.
With someone
always holding your left hand,
we stayed
until you had to go,
creating a
tableau which will linger:
A shadow in
our minds and an echo in time
that
whispers, ‘We love you so much, we love you so much.’
We do not
remember the view from the window.
© Laura Howard 2012
