the hospital room

the feeling of loss hangs in the air,
clings to the sterile, white, walls
and the cheerful and bold window curtains
that fail to distract from the cold frost outside.

my mother is lying on the bed, disheveled,
staring at the curtains,
as though wishing that the life they connote
could replace that just lost within her.

artificial warmth pumps through plastic grey vents
but does not penetrate the cold that has stricken us –
the visitors to this place that has grief pulsating from
the walls
the floor
the ceiling

the chairs are uncomfortable,
but also comforting as the subtly suggest
in their firm, unrelenting way,
that visiting hours must come to an end.
and the relief that that thought brings is immediately
followed by guilt.

as our time does draw to an end,
as was inevitable but still too soon,
my mother sobs at the prospect of being alone.
her fragility frightens me
and when my father stays behind to soothe her ravaged being,
i wonder how many people have uttered the same words
in this room.