Feet
Before I know it they’re there, uncovered at the end of your palliative care bed. We’re whispering, just in case. Taking turns too, to whisper in your ear- who’s here, a psalm, the Nunc Dimittis. Someone’s massaging your small pale feet, one at a time - silky moisturiser, perfumed, scooped from a jar. Your eyes don’t open, your expression isn’t telling, your breathing holds on. A once in a lifetime chance missed, something vital - to massage your feet with silky moisturiser those last few days, a chance for flesh and bone knowing, mine, to be entered, bestowed upon - a thanksgiving left undone. At the end of a bed your small pale feet, uncovered.
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Edward DennistonHuman Archives
March 2022
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