When I first walked in, an hour before the procedure, 
the reaction, an eye half-coma-frozen wink 
visibly obscured by her split laugh.
A medical whiteboard across her eyeline;                                                        
a name.  
I told her the nurses wanted to wash her,
punctuating her voice a lot 
for someone who’d had a 
stroke 
to my
laugh. 
When I said that thing about Dad
being 
so much more than her not so
grandson, she recalled Dad’s friend
motorbiking across some road; missing
a turn in a supposed meditation trip to India
and turned to how the staff were treating her.

When we stepped out one of the nurses spoke 
unsterilised about her gumption and I thought that 
the corridor of a euthanasia ward is just like any other 
ward.
Standing with dad, while my cousin and her children had their
turn, he told me he loved his 
brother, but hadn’t ever wanted to be like him.

I returned alone, 
told her it had been nice last year
bringing my eldest to visit her home. 
She nodded
and I chuckled an oh god no. 

Agreeing, then Dad came in to tell her
his sister-in-law wanted to plant 
a rose
for her bravery, 
which saw her unfrozen side
shake shift.
 
Later, I drove away
minutes before the hour
past.









Hello! 
Goodbye!
They haven’t
even got the damn date 
right! That was 
yesterday.
No! No! No!
Doesn’t matter
whether I’m dirty 
when I’m dead.
He’d done well for a
naughty boy
when he was
young.
Rod! Ridiculous name.
Your dad
could’ve been a screw up too.
They know I’m the boss;
we just do it all on my terms.











He is a good boy. Is he still a good boy?
Well... it’s your responsibility to ensure he 
turns out alright.





No. No courage,
just quiet in this.