You were always different, after that day. After the car and the rain, the starched hospital gown you woke up in, and the loss.
You had a high and wide window in the room that they gave you to wake up in- that first time and so many more than you’d have liked after that. I hated when you first called it ‘your room’-it made me sick.
I often asked myself if you wanted the company, even noticed me enter, sit, pace, leave. We never really spoke there, in “your room”. You never really spoke to me. When you did it was with a maniacal forced ignorance, when you would ask me how work was going or whether we should make plans for summer or just plan along the way, as if the world hadn’t just fallen apart, spilt itself all over us. Sitting, I’d watch you throw your eyes at that window, as if you were trying to will something into existence on the other side of its vacuous and sterilized panes, or trap your sorrow, disbelief, lamentation in its drowning double-glazing.
I knew then, that day, that we would never really talk again, not properly, and too that I wanted nothing more in the whole runny ruin of the world
You would tell me what you missed. Duvets- you said sheets felt so limp, clinical (they wouldn’t let you forget). You missed waking up smiling, carpet, feeling my hand touch you before you saw it in your own. Now you felt no hands- you felt nothing from the waist down, and you chose never to even see those of the nurses, when they came to “see how you are today”. For they seemed mocking. Pitiful. You said that they were just more reminders- Handfuls of them.