The Smell of Lilies

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Abstract

on the sofa, rocked by the rhythm of your medication driver.</p><p id="4665">Visitors I don’t want arrive, those I know you would rather not hear even in unconsciousness. I switch off your hearing aid. Eons later as they depart I think, politeness is overrated.</p><p id="4074">It is 10 days since we were married the day your breathing changes. I would know what this meant two years later with my father but in this moment I assume and try to sing you to sleep with our song.</p><p id="38ea">Ridiculous thought that this would make the perfect ending and things being perfect feels most important.</p><p id="87f9">You stir a little. Have I disturbed your journey? Still, it is peaceful, just you and I, no round the bed palava.</p><p id="81ad">Soon you are collected.</p><p id="97bc">My wedding bouquet still thrives on the table by the window but now the smell of lilies always reminds me of death.</p><p id="1133">Tomorrow they’ll collect the hospital bed, leaving me with lil

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ies and no new routine.</p><p id="8be8">This happened 15 years ago this December. It remains as vivid as ever and I still can’t stand the smell of lilies.</p><p id="62ce">In response to another fine prompt from @David S:</p><div id="25b7" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/prompt-precise-observation-baac1b1685de"> <div> <div> <h2>Prompt: Precise Observation</h2> <div><h3>“The art of art, the glory of expression and the sunshine of the light of letters is simplicity. Nothing is better than…</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*-GTSgeoO_ZuMfQFILTLCuA.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><p id="6dfb">Thank you, David. I don’t think I would’ve written this without it.</p></article></body>

Free Verse

We’ve been home a week after you doubted it would happen and we’re in a new routine. Morning. Nurses come and we are separately refreshed your vital signs checked today’s meds attached.

November moved into December and trapped in the hospital hothouse we hadn’t felt the cold for six weeks. Here, I keep you just warm enough so you won’t dehydrate.

A day ago you drifted to somewhere in between, while I slept on the sofa, rocked by the rhythm of your medication driver.

Visitors I don’t want arrive, those I know you would rather not hear even in unconsciousness. I switch off your hearing aid. Eons later as they depart I think, politeness is overrated.

It is 10 days since we were married the day your breathing changes. I would know what this meant two years later with my father but in this moment I assume and try to sing you to sleep with our song.

Ridiculous thought that this would make the perfect ending and things being perfect feels most important.

You stir a little. Have I disturbed your journey? Still, it is peaceful, just you and I, no round the bed palava.

Soon you are collected.

My wedding bouquet still thrives on the table by the window but now the smell of lilies always reminds me of death.

Tomorrow they’ll collect the hospital bed, leaving me with lilies and no new routine.

This happened 15 years ago this December. It remains as vivid as ever and I still can’t stand the smell of lilies.

In response to another fine prompt from @David S:

Thank you, David. I don’t think I would’ve written this without it.