Missing

Are you ok? Hope you’ve calmed down.  

These things happen.  

But this week, Oli’s been fully booked,  

late out, asked to see a very poorly patient—  

but couldn’t. No space.  

Andy asked, as a favour,  

for his friend, just diagnosed,  

his sight slipping like sand  

through a closing fist.  

I read it again.  

Again. Again.  

Each word tightens, a thread pulled sharp.  

My name is missing, but I am there—  

the gap where he should have been.  

I check the locks.  

I check the oven.  

I check the locks again.  

It doesn’t help.  

I see him now.  

A man, older maybe,  

hands resting on the arms of a chair,  

blinking into the blur of his own body  

giving up on him.  

I count the carrots in the fridge.  

Six. No, seven.  

Line them up. Rearrange them.  

Odd numbers are better.  

They're mouldy anyway,

Throw them in the bin. 

Take them out. 

Throw them back in. 

It doesn’t help.  

I see the room where he wasn’t.  

Where I was meant to be.  

Where I wasn’t either.  

I type a reply.  

Delete it.  

Type it again.  

Delete.  

The weight of it presses,  

lodges behind my ribs.  

These things happen.  

But this thing happened to me.