The gift of hearing is the last to go at the end of life
The light falling on the counterpane tells me yet another day is here,
a precious gift I always thought, but now one day runs into another.
The pristine sheet, hard tucked in, shows I have not moved,
hides the bedsores and warmth-cooling piss beneath.
I see my twitching hands lying sallow, blue,
the only part of me to move unaided.
Death sits quietly at my side,
my only visitor now.
We have become quite intimate.
‘Do you remember?’ She smiles.
‘Pony rides? That dreadful fall?’
She was there then, always there,
always around; a friend,
not just an acquaintance.
The nursing home is silent.
At least, I do not hear
the cries I know are there
for help that never comes;
cries I no longer make.
The family have been
and gone,
‘Paid their last respects’,
people I no longer know,
the young grown strangers.
Death helps me breathe,
easing the rattle,
each breath a tiny gift.
She gets up.
I rise to follow.
And a robin sings…
Brenda Henderson,
Member of The Healing Trust & Retired Tutor
