It creeps like a shadow alongside the passing years and the taste of it hides in the corners of our mouths. It finds us whether we are sick or healthy. It is a secret hushed thing that lives in the whisper of the nurses’ skirts as they rustle up and down our stairs. They’ve taught me to face the language one syllable at a time, slowly creating an unwilling meaning. Cheyne–Stoking. Terminal agitation. New phrases to clog up my mind. I wonder if I’ll lose them after. Whether they’ll fade and be lost in that place on the tip of my tongue. I don’t think so. There are too many association games to play with them. I’m sitting by the window and from here I can see the small television table at the end of your bed with the video monitor on it. Downstairs, your sleeping image is showing to an empty room – only me here now and I’m here with you. Not that the camera’s needed anymore. The terminal agitations have stopped. Only terminal trembling remains. And although I know that this means you are closer to the end, I’m glad that part is over.
