Overnight Bag

I finally persuade Dad

To go into the garden.

The sun is shining,

And the exuberant peas need him.

He looks at you,

You nod and smile,

So he shuffles off –

But leaves the back door open.

I knew it had spread,

But you not having treatment

Somehow told me it would get better.

And then today, at work,

Someone said the word terminal.

It floated across the room

And fell into my head,

Like an apologetic corpse.

Neither of you like to talk

You waft your hands

And cough into cupboards,

Pressing the unspoken

Into neatly-arranged drawers.

But today, I need to know,

Is all it takes.

I don’t think I have much time,

You whisper.

I am fifty-six years old

Yet I lower my head

Into your lap

To feel you stroke my hair.

What will I be without you?

What shape will I become?

Outside I see Dad, watching.

Bright eyes peering from the foliage,

As if he would catch you

Slipping out the front door,

His heart gently folded

Into your overnight bag.