The Beginning of the End

They read together silently, side by side.
His armchair, threadbare. Hers, newer, firmer.
Ignoring the cacophony of chaos in the air,
few words were spoken, much more to share.

Sometimes, in the middle of a line,
he would rest a gentle hand on hers.
She felt his skin, translucent, paper thin,
but said nothing, smiled and read instead.

They shared the footstool,
she scolded when he crossed his feet,
muttering in mock rage,
about blocked circulation and age.

He apologised, sighed, and uncrossed,
crossing them again by the end of his page.
When he wrote, he took careful note,
to ask her opinion. Seek approval.

‘Are you scared?’ she stopped to ask.
‘Not of dying, no,’ he answered, ‘but the rest.’
‘Then don’t worry, I’m here,’ her face a mask.
‘I know,’ he replied, ‘you’ll do your best.’

And that was all, she let the tear fall,
unseen, behind the veil of her book.
No more words, unnecessary, redundant words.
They understood. It was said in that look.

For they were the same.
Father and his first born, his shadow, his name,
they felt no shame at his flickering flame.
And, at the end, no need to pretend,

or question why, this sweet Goodbye.