Air by Rosie Adamson-Clark

You lay below on the wheezy
airbed,
it seemed to gasp as you rolled
over towards me,
reaching up to take my hand,

this wasn't what we planned,
the Nurses, moving glider like,
attended to your needs...
as well as the dying,

the dead peacefully tucked
up safely for the night,
strange how people no longer
say the word,
a harshness to it that lasts,
society prefers the anodyne 'passing'
or 'past'... that isn't right,

berthed beside each other,
as it were,
was it a water bed ?
No it was air,
ships in the night,

we seemed scuppered,
i heard you shiver, gulp,
trying to weep silently,
your small body heaved,
air escaped the temporary
resting place,

small life raft,
down the hall someone
sneezed,
then a long rattle,
climbing over the ugly cot sides,
your knee, or was it mine...

stuck in your nightgown,
why is dying so graceless,
me helpless, infantile needing,
we held on,
finding a small space beside me,
was it hope?

Kissing your salty tears,
pecking your cheeks,
i chipped away at your
outward calm,
togetherness,
I whisper...

'what will we do?'

A small, thin voice replied
'go on, we must, a 2nd chance'
balm to my ears and damaged heart,
but no, not that,
surely there are only first chances,

Here, this morning,
a fresh day to go fill,
precious time, i lasted the night
death did not rub me out,
beep dit dit trill of the machine,

the nurses in scrubs, busy now,
window opened to let in a fresh day,
i watched your eyes flutter,
hair ruffled by cool air,
cheeks brushed by my warm breath,
still here...yes still here,
second chance love.

Comments   

0 #1 Lynn walton 2021-11-09 13:26
Wow! Amazing piece of writing! Love the hope in the small space beside you.
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