HATING MONDAYS

A FATHER TALKS TO HIS DEAD SON.

Counting off on fingers
with other finger
taking count of days.

Hate Mondays.
Laden with memories.

Machines,
wires,
lights going
blip blip blip,
sounds of this
and that showing
something we
did not understand.

We were there watching,
seeing you,
touching hands,
arms,
whispering words.

Coma had you;
you were sleeping;
we viewed you,
hoping,
expecting your eyes
to open
and that lovely smile.  

In a minute,
we thought,
in a short while.

You never did though.
Just the rise and fall
of your heart ticking
on the machine,
urine being pumped out,
blood checked,
wires here and there.

We stood or sat waiting.
We talked of who
would take turns to stay
while others took time away.

Then it was just me,
sitting,
watching,
others gone for a break.
Then your heart faltered
the machine said.

Your mother and brother came.
We watched,
holding your hands and arms,
talking to you to hold on.
Hoping against hope,
watching you,
the machine,
the light indicated
your heart plummeted
and flat-lined
and you were gone.

Counting off fingers,
with other finger
counting off the days.
I hate Mondays.