The gentle tap of the ice-tray, the subtly hints at the dulling authority of your hands.
The evening winks a night time slumber, stars darting in and out of sight behind the paint chipped kitchen window frame.
I sneeze, dust assaulting my nasal cavity; housework left undone for months.
The moments when, holding me, we danced around the kitchen uncaring of the singing pasta, gone.
Your hand reaches for the dark amber liquid. My chest tightens.
Your fingers gripping the cool glass bottle, constrict the beats of my heart.
Coughing, I run the tap. Cupping the water in my hand, I sip the tepid liquid.
How many days have passed, watching the gentle suck and push?
A plastic, medical accordion, untuneful in its hissed honesty.
You walk to the table, glass in hand, jaw set with tiredness.
I move the pasta from the heat – we wont be eating tonight.
Your face lowers into your palms. My strength falters.
The sobs are guttural, your weakness visible.
The question has – in it’s weighty burden – gathered life around it;
No longer a simple yes or no; it unravels the very foundations of creation and our beliefs.
You stare at me with an accusatory expression, fists beating at the table.
My silence angers you.
I want to scream, to tear at my skin.
Yet, I am still and silent.
We are so devided in our grief.
With little more to say, I cross the room, take up the pen lying beside you.
To let our child slip away, is the choice,
but as my signature joins your’s in wet, black, inky agreement,
loosing you, my husband, is the consequence.