I saw an angel once.

From my bed, third from the left. 

An endless row that sees us lined up like cattle awaiting a bolt through the head. 

Mrs Jenkins on my left, Mrs Smith on my right.  Both shallow little hillocks under their stiff, scratchy covers. 

 The nurses tiptoe past, their rubber soles squeaking on the shiny linoleum.  

  Grey ambient light settles over us, a gloom that blends us with the surrounds.

  The staff pass us by, camouflaged they pretend not to see us

There’s a lot of snoring tonight.  Old folk exhausted by endless days of sitting, and eating and dozing. 

The ward is a bus stop.  Somewhere to sit surrounded by strangers, while we wait for our ride..

Sister Andrews passes by.  I smile at her, knowing full well that she will wake me in two hours for my sleeping pill. 

 She is my only physical contact . 

 Impersonal activities of daily living. 

 Like washing ones car.  

In my earlier years I would have raged against the injustice. 

Now I am resigned and grateful.  

I have discovered  that death is not eternal, but the waiting is. 

 Waiting passes the time.  We wait for our pills, we wait for our meals.  We wait for our loved ones. 

 We wait for Christmas, and we wait for it to be over. 

 Every day is a new waiting. 

 Ripe with waiting potential.

Eventually my lids betray me.  Closing to open again tomorrow.  Through blurry slits, I see my lashes.

 My bed is like a coffin, and I am tucked in tight, like a child.

I rest for a time, feeling the rise and fall of my bird like chest. 

 I lay stiff and straight, a stranger in my bed, and eventually the sounds of commercialised care fade around me.

In a rush of heat, I am awake. 

  Through the murkiness of sleep a glow, incandescent  fills the room like a sunset

 An incredible pounding pushes forth from my chest,  and a sound comes at me like  a wind tunnel throbbing.

 Above me  like a full, ripe moon hangs beauty and terror.

Rising up with monolithic reverence, the air swirls and eddies, thick with angel dust

I gasp, sucking for escape, and feel  my body might burst apart.

The air is warm and sweet, and as I breath it in I taste buttterscotch

I feel the whoosh of blood pulse through me, and as she reaches ivory fingertips towards my salty tears, I am gone.

Fainting and floating.

In her embrace, I am limp

I feel her lips press against my tired brow

Sobbing,

Mother has returned to take me home

 

 

 

In the falling snow, I hold your hand.   The chill bites at my fingertips.

 We walk, headed for the taxi across the street.  The cold rises up through my soles as I look at you, your overcoat swallowing your frail frame.  I see you now, as you see yourself, as someone else.  As something else.   Your face is tight like  balloon skin, teeth jutting, once a perfect size, now hideous against thin lips.  Eyes set deep in their sockets look back at me as I reach up to trace  the pattern of your skull.  Hard and finite it brags of inevitability.  Short stubby lashes blink me away.  From under your hat, I see the smatterings of new hair, darker than before.  Like baby roots under the loam. 

 Occasionally the wind blusters past us, flapping your coat open.  I can sense the weight in you pocket, and imagine the bottle inside.   The yellow label and the words Nembutal inscribed on the outside, exactly as you had showed me on the website. 

Silence walks between us as we cross the road.   Cars passing , their headlights dull against the gloom.  The fumes from the exhaust taste like poison.  I imagined this would be different.  That moments of bittersweet symbolism would etch this moment in my mind always.  Instead, the bare trees feel full of crows.  I want to stand by the cab forever. 

 Heavy with sadness, my head drops.  The sharp spikes of your beard scrape along my cheek, burning with the cold.  My hands grab for you, feeling thin shoulders and hollowed bones.  Skeleton fingers wrap my wrists. 

 There is no goodbye, we’ve done that already, and as you enter the cab, I hear you give the driver the address.  You tell him you’re tired and may sleep for the duration of the trip.  Not to wake you.  You pull the door shut, the noise like an axe cutting off a limb.  You hunker down in the corner of the seat, like a child in their father’s favourite chair, and your hand dips into you pocket.  It is your favourite drive, and I see you remembering times and places and faces, before taking that fatal sip and slipping away.  I imagine the drivers irritation upon arrival, and wonder if he will take the fifty dollar note you have left for him in your wallet.

  Pulling sharply out into the traffic the cab screeches as it breaks heavily at the lights.  The sound jangles at my nerves, my skin brittle. 

I wait for you to turn, to look at me one final time, but the cab is gone.  I stand and watch its invisible trail.  The wind howls hollow against my ears.  Alone, flakes land upon my face like frozen tears and I whisper…”Goodbye Daddy.”