White sheets white gowns white faces
walls a putty-coloured grey
dreary vinyl scrubbed thin.
Disinfectant pervades the air.
Lumps on beds, wrapped like mummies
body functions monitored,
minds in zones beyond our reach.
Around them hover guardians of gadgetry
in sterile masks
adjusting tubes
connecting life support machines
to almost lifeless bodies.
Cryptic messages scribbled and hung
on boards at every bed.
This one says she’s dying.
With shaking hands I reach for hers
clasp the claw-like fingers
and remember:
dresses for a teenage Cinderella
who turned into a pumpkin
despite your efforts to catch her a prince;
Sunday roasts and several thousand casseroles,
bottling fruit and making jam.
A gardener’s hands,
no time for manicures and painted nails.
Despite hospital scrubs
a patch of green remains
from the weeds you pulled last week.
Three generations of babies
your hands have cradled.
How many knees have they patched?
Brows stroked?
Tears wiped?
Can you feel my tears on your fingers?
Are you still here or have you already gone?
Mum, your hands are so cold.