'He was with me at the funeral, Alan was.' <br />Nobody has the heart to tell her <br />that what she remembers is a dream. <br />In a relentless fever she works the seam, <br />'I don't know what I would have done <br />without him there. He's a good son. <br />Jack was ever so proud of him.' <br />To those coming on shift at handover time: <br />'She thinks it was her husband who died, <br />not her son Alan, in that car. <br />Her husband Jack died years ago. <br />Best go along with her, at least for now. <br />Be careful lifting her, she cracked three ribs <br />in the fall she had the night she heard.'<br /><br />John Garth Raubenheimer<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-the-home/
