The Statue

'Dying is fun! ' you say '...once you get the hang of it...' '...& as long as the pain stays away! ' Your face says ouch without saying 'Ouch! ' 'It adds an extra spice to life knowing how minutes there are left! ' 'I calculated it with my solar power pocket caluclator! ' 'It seems like you live it twice as fast...twice as intense seeing everything so precise seeing even what's.. not...there! ' The pain laughs at your puny efforts to control it. 'Doc...says a year (at the most) maybe a matter of months...weeks! ' 'It depends on what the cancer thinks! ' you laugh. 'And to think I'm a Cancerian! ' The pain has not got your sense of humour. Already I can see it is bored by you tries to wipe that grin off your face. It almost ...succeeds. 'Seems like I'm nothing now but this cancer! ' 'It's all that anybody can see! ' 'Like I've been rubber stamped on my forehead or something! ' 'Well, Mrs. Cancer...' I swore I heard the doctor say. 'And, all my friends can see is...my death! ' 'They annoy me with their crying! ' 'Hello...hell.. o! I'm not dead yet! ' 'This bloddy cancer has taken on a life of it's own tells me what I can or can't do! ' 'It's the boss! ' 'Now... that there's a limit to it Time...is precious can't bear... to waste a minute .. of it! ' 'It feels as if the cancer is a famous sculptor & labours to create the shape of my death bit by bit! ' 'Seems like it's one of those ugly modern abstract statues you know meaning nothing with a hole in the middle! ' 'And everyday the cancer chiselling away at it striving for perfection! ' 'I tell the cancer Oh...get on with it! ' 'Get it over with! ' 'See...I'm becoming quite the philosopher! ' 'Now...get out of here! ' 'Stop talking to a dying woman get out in the sun don't waste a min- -ute of it! ' I laugh. You're still so.. you! You ask me for a favour before I go. I scratch your bum (you can't reach it no more) . You tell me 'That's the best scratch in all the world! ' I smile tell you you always had the best bum in the world. You laugh. (It...hurts) . I go. Close the door behind me on your dying. Step into brash sunlight that feels like it's lying. Two months later your death greets me disguised as an airmail letter. I missed your dying by a week ...it seems I'm in a different country...crying. A weak sun shivers in the land of the living. From beyond Death you write me a private letter with handwriting I wouldn't recognise as yours. It just says: 'Donall Donall! ' on the envelope. Inside (a card) a wood engraving by Eric Gill the one with Mary Magdalene covering a crucified Christ with her body her hair like a river covering them both. The handwriting almost broken only kept alive by your iron will. 'Guess the statue's done & Death is no Michelangelo could have done better myself but I wasn’t up to it! ' My tears dissolving your words.