The Writers Voice
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Young Jimmy’s eyes and mind were focused
on the Game Boy,
He sat at the foot of his Grandma’s bed, he knew she was dying.
Sunlight streamed through the ground floor window,
It was difficult to see the screen, he knew his Mum was crying.
She was bending low over Grandma, whispering and stroking her hair.
Earlier she’d asked him to leave the room but he said he was OK,
She needed him there, he knew that, at least until the doctor arrived.
Grandma’s pallid face was sunken and her hair had blown away.
Jimmy heard her cough up phlegm, he looked up and saw her smile,
She mouthed, ‘My Jimmy,’ Jimmy needed the toilet but went back to his game.
Mum puffed up the pillows, Grandma groaned, a bird on the windowsill
Chirped and preened, a car pulled up, the bird fluttered and fell, it was lame.
Jimmy ran to the front door, the doctor looked grim, he let him in.
The doctor headed for the back room where Grandma lay.
Jimmy remained outside the room, the door was ajar, so he listened.
‘My love,’ ‘Injection,’ ‘Too late,’ ‘I love you,’ ‘Oh Mum,’ ‘Pray.’
Jimmy slouched away to the foot of the stairs, sat and sobbed.
A cloud momentarily blotted the Sun from every window.
Minutes stretched unnoticed, Mum had her arm around him,
She needed comforting, her soft distraught sobs made him feel painfully low.
He heard, ‘arrangements,’ as the doctor was closing the door behind him.
Grandma’s house shivered, he and Mum rocked gently, holding tight.
As they locked the door and left the house, the Sun appeared so bright,
Jimmy bent down, picked up the bird, stroked it, it seemed so right.
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