The double doors had rubber seals.

They swung open with a crash against the wall.

A porter pushed your stretcher through.

It was April Fool’s Day but no joke.

The doctor who greeted us was pretty, Indian,

dressed in a crop T-shirt and jeans.

She bustled between stretchers.

She looked about twelve years old.

Nurse and registrar spoke over you.

“Stroke” they told us,

as if you couldn’t hear, as if you couldn’t understand.

But I knew you could.

We left you in A&E,

beds stacked along the wall

in line, like piano keys,

but with no music.

It took five days for them to tell us

there was no hope of recovery.

We massaged oil into your hands,

wet your lips with water.

Eleven days later as I held your hand,

said a blessing, you died.

Your struggle had turned to grace.

I packed your things into a grey carrier bag and left.