His brother is sitting by the window.
The nurse has tipped a jigsaw puzzle
on the table in front of him,
clumps of grey cardboard, a twiggy heap
nobbled as the oak leaves
thick under the trees in the grounds outside.
My father struggles slowly through the Day room
lifting his stick as he looks around smiling.
His brother has been told he is coming
but beams in surprise when he sees him.
I get some chairs. I want it to be special,
an exchange of stories from
the deep sequestration of ninety years
shared lives, but they say almost nothing
just find each other’s shaking hand.
We sit in the winter Sunday afternoon
and although we could stay longer, until the bell
and even knowing this is the last time,
they are tired
and they’ve said all there is to say.
