NaPM April 13 2015

[jasmine.m.wardiya]

He dies in the night.
I know.
I sign him off:
pretty signature, pretty date.
And then I come home and shower and sleep
because life must go on.

He comes in the night.
Wakes me from my fitful doze.
Asks for some coffee
and maybe a bite or three.
I humour this ghost:
tea for two, since I
have a shift tomorrow too.
And some biscuits.
He dips them into his tea.
I do too.

We chat. He asks how he died.
I tell him. All fancy words
he doesn't get, then in layman's terms
and he nods, and thinks, and nods again
and drains his cup half-full.
I wonder why he's here;
he's not the first I've seen, and signed
nor the last I guess
but across me he sits
and we talk until my pager calls
and then he smiles and leaves.

At the hospital again
I check. Part of me wonders
if that guest of mine was real
but no. His body is still there,
waiting for the burial services,
or the family. I don't know.
It's my job to sign, not to say.

When I get home later, that evening,
I wonder who the other cup was really for.
One cup is empty. Another full
and I can't remember
if, the night before, I'd drunk my tea.