The Visit

It's the wrong hospital room.
Covered in rain, an armful of green roses, 
I peer at you in bed.
An old man? A foetus? A bald boy? A baby bird?
Not you, my sister!
Your mouth - it's your mouth.
I touch you, your blue eyes open - too soon -
before I'm composed.
It's you, in there.
Slowly, you return to the world.
Memory vague, gentle laughing.
I prattle, hiding my horror at the change in you
these last ten weeks.
A seizure. Calcium deficiency. No brain tumour.
You can't remember yesterday.
Can't recall the name of the designer whose dress you'll wear
to your daugher's wedding.
Then, later, suddenly - Carla Zampatti.
Your armpits are scarred.
Cancer.
Your wig is in a bag at the bed's foot.
'It's beautiful. How much?'
Your lips are crusted, I give you my lipbalm.
Doctors and nurses are beautiful, you say.
It's their job.
You point, saying 'The lace on your top.
It's like the lace on your bear - when we were kids.'
Supper comes - vaccuum sealed orange juice.
Ditto cookies. 
Remember Akta-Vite, I say.
I open your juice - a struggle, like on an aeroplane.
The juice spits onto the table. 
More gentle laughing.
The nurse brings a carafe for the green roses.
We talk of our children, grandchildren. Christmas.
Your arms are brown, but with the muscle gone.
You're getting tired.
I don't want to leave you by yourself, here.


You say -
I won't know.
I'll be asleep.