top of page
Search
Writer's pictureThe Red Wheelbarrow Poetry

Night Vigil

Heidi van Rooyen


Your last few months

were endless.

In pain, fussy, irritable,

paranoid

you hated your need.

My sister you liked.

No nonsense, physical, practical

she seemed schooled for dying:

fluffed your pillows,

deftly turned you

propped you up

so you looked like yourself.

Grief

ate my strength.

I couldn’t lift you,

but I could sit:

silent and still

create a space

for our pain to spoon.

I’d watch.

Look for signs of my mother.

But find instead

shrunken, frail bones on your bed.

Dark brown eyes deep in their sockets

ready to leave this cervical war.

Beautiful full lips, tongue and mouth

stained with morphine thrush.

Each swallow

a slow painful slide down your throat.

Your only comfort

the old sheepskin blanket

easing the ooze of your bed sores.

It’s the final stretch.

You are back in hospital.

The doctor calls a family meeting.

He says: “This could go on forever or we can help”.

Or words to that effect.

Death talk is never straight.

Someone must always fill in the blanks.

The doctor is asking for permission to kill you.

Morphine via a drip will do the trick.

“It should be quick” he says. “One drip will probably…”

We fumble towards an answer without ever admitting our actions.

It’s decided… I offer… I’m not sure.

My 23-year old self will sit shiva.


Head resting on your bed

I sing your favourite hymns,

murmur prayers.

Eyes lift occasionally to check

your drip, your breathing.

I clasp your elegant,

slim fingers

so much like mine

just browner,

worn with love.


The sun rises on the beach across the road.

Your breathing, shallow, rhythmical.

My voice hoarse

songs and prayers lost in guilt.

The nurse and I on shorthand terms now.

“Another?” she asks. I nod.

It’s close to lunch-time

on the day you were supposed to be dead.

Everyone else has come back.

“Ma still here”, they whisper.

I nod, turn away.

None of us trusting our eyes.

It’s after 3, and a third drip is nearing its end.

I step out to find forgiveness.

In the space I vacate

you finally take your leave.


Featured at The Red Wheelbarrow with the Life Riting Collective on 21 July 2022


0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

The Little Yellow House

Phelelani Makhanya There is a little yellow house at the corner of the street, where the jacaranda has painted the paving purple. Every...

Naughty Greens

Basil du Toit The rude vegetables are up to no good again, succumbing to irresistible inflations, their growth-tips, tautly congested,...

Evening Song (Durban)

Ari Sitas After a day of stoning and gas an ancient chore beckons by the ocean’s lip - a crowd heaving, heaving, sifting through the sand...

Kommentare


Post: Blog2_Post
bottom of page