Last walk

to Mom and Dad

‘I can’t go any further,’ he says and stops next to a low cement wall.

‘There’s the entry. Just twenty more steps.’ Her voice is pleading.

‘I can’t.’ He lowers himself to sit.

‘Wait!’ She slips her right shoe off and slides it underneath, in time for him to sit on. ‘The cement is cold,’ she explains.

He looks at her. His left eyelid is drooping — a pink tear-well that fills up and overflows. His face is unshaven.

‘It’s not good,’ he gasps.

‘Shush now. Rest.’

The October wind flaps his hospital pyjamas ends where two buttons are missing. Her bare foot is cold.

They said his brain scan was clear.

The second time, he couldn’t walk. Four male nurses carried him in a blanket, holding one end each. She shuffled along in her worn-out shoes, hand flying to her mouth every time he moaned. They stopped to rest, put him on the ground in front of the cement wall. He didn’t look at her. She was already numb with grief.

They said his brain scan was clear.

They were wrong again.

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