The bed-bound rehearsels
his repertoire of movements,
the dressing-gowned shuffle
clutching his glass body.
We reorganize his symptoms. Outside
darkness descends like a heavy eyelid.
Dispatches rattle. The debris is tidied
into vases, bedside table, mind.
Some siren voices whisper
All's well, all is quiet,
his sheets are straightened
now he can relax into his illness.
Caulked, battened, and kissed,
I close the door,
feeling reliably abstracted.
The world confirmed us, but I open
the door a crack
to see if the sheet still moves.
Marjon van Bruggen
July 2018
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Author Notes
Towards the end of his life, my caring consistent mainly in automatic actions. I felt numb and tired. We were both prepared for the end. He was not very conscious of anything anymore, but his body had to give up soon. Each day there was a little less life in him.
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