The gap between breaths was normal, said the nurse
but it wasn’t normal:
the masks, the smell of disinfectant
the rasps for breath on that dark silent night
none of it was normal.
Others ate roasts, swapped gifts, laughed around the tree
but we sat
waiting between one rise of bedsheets to the next
wondering how long a human body could last without air
thinking about past times and how
things would never be quite the same again.
We held your hand, talked about nothing
listened
waited.
The phone call came at eight o’clock the following morning:
a grey snowless Boxing Day, the air
heavy and still
nothing special, as you used to say, and
yet you were.
Oh, joyeux Noel.
Genevieve Murphy, nee Noel, (7.7.1923 – 26.12.2020)
Jeremy Barron 