by Claire Lynch

late, dark and cold
they wheeled you from the ER
to Radiology,
set up the CT scan
and took their images —
finished, they wheeled you
on the gurney into the hall,
locked the wheels
and waiting with you in the dark
I held your hand

closing your hand around mine
you couldn’t help
but think of 52 years before —
the moment I was born

we waited while the rest
of the hospital was quiet
unusually quiet because at 2 am
the world slept

the hands of the wall-mounted clock
marched on, seeing us,
witnessing us, alone in the hall

tired of waiting for
the orderly who had promised —
I started pushing you
down the hall
white with linoleum floors
back to the ER
but halfway there I stopped,
tired and uncertain, with
tears running down my face

I cried so quietly I
couldn’t even hear myself
so you wouldn’t know

the truth was
you knew and I knew
that three weeks from now
I would have no words

still waiting for that orderly
to discover us
lost and frightened
me standing and you lying there
watching the shadows dancing
on the walls

years have passed
and I confess that
I’ve gone back,
stood on the spot
where you lay,
and I looked around
searching not for shadows
dancing on the walls
but for the woman you were,
the woman I knew
far from the hospital
before you were three weeks from dying

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash