Emily isn’t her real name.

Emily isn’t her real name.

I introduced her to our medical student on Friday.

She is rake-thin,

with wizened skin

From almost a century of cigarettes,

She shuffles from room to room on a dusty walker,

Her mobility scooter


In the corner of her room.

I’ve mentioned her before,

She of the parakeet


Now deceased.

I said,

She used to have a bird, Coco, now dead.

That’s a shame, said the student, although I am relieved

She continued, I’m terrified of birds.

And the conversation,

The moments in time that morning,

The stillness of the late winter air,

We discussed recent events of Emily’s life.

Her recent falls

Her near-death first-wave Covid,

Her dizziness,

Aches and pains,

Struggle for breath.

She is a survivor,

A crenelated being who is built to last.

And I think,

Had she died,

two years ago,

As so many did,

This conversation would never have happened,

She would had moved into incinerator dust,

Only the memories of those who knew her

at the back of the minds,

Her story would have vanished

Another old woman

Would now be

Zimmering through the tiny bungalow,

And I,

What would I have?

Not those moments,

Not this.

It would have been an un-ocurred sadness,

I flicker in time and other things.

Published by rodkersh1948

Trying to understand the world, one emotion at a time.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: