He sits by the window with the shades drawn; light enough for writing, not too bright for his sensitive eyes. He writes every waking hour, now down to eight per day. The Meals on Wheels lady comes at midday; she reads out loud what he has written since the last meal. The medical technician comes at the same time now, he too enjoys the readings. They’ve been together for a while and are comfortable with adding edits and even embellishments to his writings. His work is unremittingly dour and much improved with a bit of their humor.

The tech is there to perform a mini-dialysis, it’s nothing more than a delaying tactic. The agreement with the tech is that he can at any time shake it off and the tech will go home knowing there is no need to return. Meals and Wheels has the estranged daughter’s address and will then mail all of the papers to her. She had left his life many years ago after a furious and stupid fight over her boy friend. What the three of them were writing was everything he had wanted to tell her since then, and both sides of every conversation he had imagined having with her.

Foghorns called into walled cloud, and you still alive, drawn to the light as if it were a fire kept by monks, darkness once crusted with stars, but now death-dark as you sail inward.   Carolyn Forché

George's selection of 66 Phlogs is available in print from People's Press.

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