My mother asks my doctor for final alignment – that I was in fact dying

Her supper-sorting mind knew no better than to fall away on her own two feet

A little less manicured now from a failure to cleanse; even her teeth stood dank and needy – yet she will proceed to borrow and provide endlessly

And neighbours will help us through as though they had already been here, there, everywhere, waiting with arms arising

Distance relinquished by way of frozen cold and constant ham sandwiches hand-to-hand, warm tea via a grandmother’s favourite plates to fill the seriously awkward silences

My mind felt many a thing but all of the people appeared to be blurred movements in time – brain-lock, they call it
Hospital bed belongings

And the weeks turn themselves into rushing months til folded distastefully atop the other, fetching these needy years of mine

There is a pair of us in this, mother and I
The car bumper brought me back down to earth; yes, ironic really

A serious thing which carries with it two awful meanings