On Hearing the Last Breath

I
Hospital

Blankets now cover the space where you once were. They are holed and worn, where tiny fingernails once held you. Where once you held small children. You held us in your arms. Tucked us in.

You have read me many stories of your life. Childhood voice-tales and violent, horrific eye-stories now.

II
Suffocation
As you reach for the air and become frantic. There is no air and I place a pillow gently under your tired feet. The failure of others to remove sheets, soaked in your last blood. Left for nine hours without a drink. You cry when we come to find you and beg for one.
This is the dialysis of the mind.

I can't find you today.

III
Delirium
You speak in tongues and ask us why we have got up from bed, when you told us to go to bed, go to bed. Go to bed.

You roll out of the bed onto the floor.


IV
Downstairs, at home.
In your make-shift bedroom, you are still crying after all of these years. You tell me that this is a lovely house. Our nights are filled with your breath. We are acutely aware of every single one. There is nothing left of your frame. Your skeletal mask no longer speaks, only in car-starting revving sounds of desperation. Your only signal is a hand lifted.

My father hides in the garage amongst newspaper, tools and a box of wrapped ornaments.

V
Drip
There are ten attempts at drip entry.
At home, the morphine kicks in for her.
In hospital, they cannot get a vein for him and he cries out.There are at least fourteen different procedures insisted upon, because you 'fell'. I am told that you should never have been moved, we didn't realise.


The nurse says it's finally time for her. I'm not sure why I get dressed. I suppose I want to look neat for her in the middle of the night.

In hospital, they try and give me a cup of tea. I don't know what to do. He has somehow gone from his face. There's a clucking sound like a tiny duckling.

VI
Revelations
I find diaries. They speak of the truth. I am shocked at your fingers pressing the pen into the page and ripping a huge hole.

VII
Pharmacy
When I take back all of the medication, a pharmacist aggressively tells me that they 'don't take needles'.

What shall I do with the insulin pen? I think I see you both in a crowd. I want to telephone you to tell you.

Her empty bag, with the key-ring on the side, with the funeral leaflet still warm from her death. Now I'm talking to new undertakers.

VIII
Paintings
I wonder why sometime strangers take your paintings. 1,2,3,4,5. Can I have another for my friend?

Can I have the car?

I have a sudden emotional attachment to a fridge freezer. Your photos are fluttering around the local tip.

VIIII
Voices
You say: Dealing with it. Carrying on. Sucking it up. Working with strangers. Coping well. Back at work. Back to normality. It will take time. Sign here. Paperwork. Leather armchairs. Write a speech. Sum up their lives in one A4. What ward? New disease. Unheard of. Mistake. Delay. Get on with it. Dry your eyes. Do you want a cup of tea? Let me have the table. I need that cupboard.

I say: You are all inside me. Leave me be.

You'll always be inside me.

Trust your heart. I've learnt to trust mine.

Take the car, if you want it.