All my friends have a life

the last time I saw Mary, Stepney, East London, Sept 2004

“All my friends have a life,” she says,

Exhausted from lying in her bed.

Drained by people bustling around,

Trying to make her comfortable.

Visitors chatting about their plans

Like Debbie who’s off to Afghanistan.

Mother sits nearby, pretending to do the crossword,

Brother strolls by, eyeing up the morphine.

Sisters drop by, phone, pray,

Do their crying in the kitchen,

Take turns when to stay.

For an hour – a whole hour – we watch EastEnders.

Two episodes, back to back.

After I try to speak but the words soon dissolve.

You panic, “Don’t tell me you’re not coming back!”

So I quickly mop up. And backtrack.