There Is No Cure but We Can Trick Ourselves on a Warm

Half Moon Full

There is no cure but we can trick ourselves on a warm Saturday afternoon in the middle of April that the ring of the door bell will bring a tall man in a black overcoat carrying a bag of miracles ready for sale, or if not a tall man we can believe it is a beautiful woman, in a long cape with a pretty hood, selling combs to dress your thinning hair and a basket of scarlet apples, one bite to put you into a deep sleep, free from pain.

But it’s not a tall man in a black overcoat or a beautiful woman in a long cape, it’s the young children next door looking for permission to rescue their ball which has bounced onto your front lawn.

We sit in the living room surrounded by pockets of quiet as you rest on your right side, shoulder pressing into thinness of cotton sheets, white daises squashed beneath your weight, dust caught in sunlight.

Bent bones of dying orchids hang from all the windows tired and grey they thirst for a simple drop of water. You are too sick to care for them now, but it is still your house and we do not wish to over-step.

You spend your days counting full moons, always looking forward, a silent wish for more time, another birthday, another trip to the cottage. One more morning to watch hummingbirds drink from the feeder you'd built years earlier.

In a month we will open the doors, sweep floorboards, freeing them of dead ladybirds and mice droppings, but for now we must leave to make the long drive home, navigating our way by a low silver crescent.

When we stop for a break our daughter collects pine cones from the side of the road – childhood treasures to ease her fears. We are careful not to speak in the car, tucking grief into small, dark spaces along with hope that you will see this new moon ripen.