We are sitting on a mattress
on the polished wood floor
my therapist
and I.
A pot of sage tea
a box of tissues
my back against
the warm
radiator.
The wind
shaking
the window frames.
And now my cold has
travelled to my chest.
Breath shallow,
constricted
a constant
cough
irritates.
The twin wings of the
lungs -
pocketing
grief
and
rage
both.
She hands me
a cushion
big and soft and creamy white
big enough
to envelop in my arms
against
the whole of my
aching
chest.
She says,
Imagine this is Robin.
Hold him tight
As tight as you can.
I am going to
try and take him from you.
She is strong
I am stronger.
A cushion vice.
The NO
when it comes
from some deep
primal
cavern
inside me
is
a lioness
howling
in the night
for her
lost cub.
NO you can't go.
Don't leave me.
You can't go.
She pulls and yanks at the corner of the cushion
No you can't have him.
No
No
No.
My whole body,
a weeping coracle,
covers
him.
Holding on
to my life.
No, it's not true.
He isn't gone.
Look, I'm holding on
tight
tight
tight
to this big warm soft
thing
in my arms.
He must still be here.
I don't want to leave you,
he says.
But let me go
now.
And so
in the
deadly deep
of the cavern
the cord
loosens.
Slowly
slowly
she
pulls
him
from
the
tightness
of my
arms.
Till I'm empty.
And the nothingness
in my arms
breaks
me.
So this is what it is
to have
had and to hold
till
death us do part.
And to hold on to
nothing
so tightly
is another kind
of dying.
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