You don’t know what it’s like, when your bones rattle, and your skin droops down like melted leather. Somewhere you remember running through fields and picking up conkers - legs fast and breathing breathless, home for tea, a warm bath, and dripping.

And suddenly, you’re in this body, with it’s gristly veins and worn-out timbers. You don’t know how you got here. And you don’t know how to get out.

I told you this last week, when you were sitting here, doing some kind of Japanese puzzle. Your fringe was flopping over your glasses, your eyes squinting like when you were a baby. I used to pick you up and squeeze you - I could never believe I’d made this little life shine - and now, I watch you from the bed, and some of the light’s gone out. It’s probably the worry. It can't be easy sitting here, day after day, listening to the panting of the tubes, and making small talk with well-wishers. We never liked the monotonies of the day-to-day, did we? ‘Life’s too short,’ you’d muse, as we watched our lines pull up fish, and reeled them in to shore. ‘Life’s too short,’ I’d nod….but I’m starting to change my mind.

When they wheeled me in, I had a blanket on me. The trolley cracked over some ice on the pavement. I think it was the cold that kept me going. ‘It’s not looking good,’ they whispered. The wind touched my face - its winter chill went up my nostrils. ‘For Godsake… keep him warm!’ you shouted. Perhaps it was the air that kept me going. That, and your face above the rest. You loomed big as I trundled backwards - when did you get so big? When did I have a son that looked like he could move a mountain with me on it? When did I get so small?

Now it’s hot, and the blanket you’ve put on me is much too thick. I don’t like to complain, as you’ve folded it so neatly - I think you worry about keeping me warm. There’s a fan blowing though, and when people aren’t looking, you bellow out your t- shirt, airing your body and checking for smells. ‘It’s a scorcher!’ I tell you - but you just carry on with your puzzles, and I can’t see your eyes under your fringe.

It’s a bother not being able to move, but you’ve become efficient at turning and bathing. ‘It’s the least I can do,’ you tell them, and the nurses look at each other with warm understanding. I’m very proud. I wish I’d told you.

The days are long, and we’re both not good at pretending they aren’t. Sometimes you lift up my eyelid - for a second we’re staring straight at one another- and I remember when your eyes were newly blue, and barely open. And now, you search around, still trying to find me. Trying to find the man who made you - and I’m shouting ‘David! I’m here! It’s me!’…but you let the lid fall, and sit back down, and your big frame sinks into the chair.

I can’t do Japanese puzzles, so I lie here and think about my life. I think of its glories, and its miseries, and I’ve come to the conclusion they’ve cancelled each other out. And I don’t have any anguish, or any happiness left to feel. I’d give anything to feel something, instead of this starched white pit of empty.
 
‘Talk to him like he’s there,’ they said. For a while, you did. But I don’t blame you- six months is a long time, and we’d more than said enough before. I’m glad you found those Japanese puzzles.

My mouth is always dry, and I seem to be sinking further into this bed. I feel like I’ve diminished - like I’m only an impression and not really here. But I am still here, and I don’t know how to get out. David, how do I get out?

I can hear the lull of evening bird song, and the scratch of your pen as you fill in your answers.  It’s a quiet company… but it’s the worst kind. ‘Please David,’ I beg, ‘Please do something’.

Suddenly, your pen drops into the crease of the book, and you close it. You take off your glasses and rub your eyes. Your whole face is falling, and your shoulders are beginning to shake. ‘David! Don’t cry!’ I’m shouting. ‘Don’t worry about me!’. But you can’t hear me. It’s been so long since you’ve heard me.

You stand above me, and all at once I feel warm and calm. You wait for a while, and our breathing unites - you slowly match the machine. Then, you stop crying.
You touch my eye, and pin back it’s lid, and I see you. There you are…my David! All mine, and so tired. You take my hand.

‘I can’t do this anymore….please Dad… go!!’ You fall back into the chair, knocking things off the table.

My lid closes. It closes one last time, and I feel like I’m sinking…and then I’m rising, and I’ve left the old timber behind. You’re sitting on the chair and sobbing, and the book of Japanese puzzles lies open on the floor…and now you are tiny…and I’m flying, and after so long of the longest nothing, this is more than ecstasy.