As I hold my poorly son's hand, entwined through cot bars,
I've been thinking of you.
Almost ten, as we unpacked trunks, we found matching pyjamas,
a shared birthday, destined to be friends.
Then a few weeks later, when noisy footsteps came to get you
and roused us from sleep,
still their day but the middle of our night
we listened in interested silence
until we heard your sobs of grief.
Then a long time later you came back
because, well, where else could you go?
And night after night, we held hands,
across the gap between cold metal beds
as you sobbed silently.
And I think of your son, asleep across the hall.
also an orphan.
© 2007 Ella S/Notes From Home. All rights reserved.