Triptich Part Three: Pieces

Triptych part 3: Pieces

As he slipped the hospital band
From his emaciated wrist
He told me he was free now
And I could take him home.

I wrapped him in his pink jacket
The one he swore wasn’t gay
But magic.
And carried him
From the hospital to the car
And from the car to his bed
Watched over by a fat Buddha
Who waved in sharp relief
To his figure lying below.

He weighed the same as a few autumn leaves
His insides eaten away by his sickness.

He said he wanted to be
Surrounded by his things
Which meant more to him
Than the people he couldn’t touch.

The cloak pins, on the aerial of the TV
To improve reception.
His pillow covered with badges
From places he’d never been
Montreal, Berlin, New Caledonia.
The pile of school annuals my uncle gave him
That he read when he was merely sick
Now propping up bottles of pills.
The hat from the party we held to celebrate
The 21st birthday he would never reach.
The clockwork dog, in lieu of a real pet
Lying beside him on the bed
His fingers without the strength to wind it.

I knelt among this plethora of things
Holding his hand
And blinking back non-existent tears.

Once his breathing had levelled out
Into a soft plane of nothingness
I pushed the wedding ring I could have never given him
Deeper into my pocket.

Reviews

[John Morris]

This is a great little write. It seemed so calm and tranquile while at the same time hammering an important message in. 'blinking back the non-existent tears' the feeling of wanting to cry but not being able to is difficult to write and yet you seem to of encapulated it perfectly. That deserves honerable mention.