"How long have you to go now?"
"Eight weeks."
"Hi! I suspect you're counting the days?"
"Four weeks and three and a half days," I said
trying to hide my feeling of satisfaction.
"Not long now?"
"What day is it?...Friday? Ah yes! Two weeks today."
I must start to think ahead, plan my day.
No need to get up at five, eight will do.
You must get into the habit of reading contemporary writers.
And brush up on current affairs.
Get the Sunday papers and make them last the week.
And think about joining a writing group.
And get back into singing at folk clubs.
I could feel her hands on my back, warm and reassuring
as I wept.
I had tried to be matter of fact.
But I was off to the chest pain clinic in the morning.
And there were just twelve days to go.
__________
© Cormac McCloskey
This poem was amended by me today, 13th February 2011 "weekend" was removed and replaced with "Sunday" which was what I had in mind, when the poem was written.
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