Of Saturdays

I dress like an invalid
Shuffle slowly about the house
Can’t eat as much these days
My fingernails, toenails grow
Hair dishevelled
The house is cold
Outside the drought slowly kills the garden
The varicoloured hues of the past turn to brown, one by one
A universal brown that hails death
I speak with my father
Slow, sparse words
Summoned from the depths of some long lost memory of language
At times his face changes and I don’t recognise him
He changes into some other man, a spirit perhaps, come to shake my hand
Come to watch over me as I move about
Watch me as I lie down and hold my head
The housing of a brain that is slowly drying out like the garden
Time unravels
This day could be years
Could be whole decades of my life
I measure time now by the regularity with which I take my meds
Hurtling towards 9 PM lithium
Then flung out again into the non-space of timelessness
Who have I seen, spoken to these last few days?
These last few years?
What have I said, what did we do, in our shared time together?
I don’t know any-more
My weight seems to be too heavy even for them
I don’t think my angels can lift me any longer
Their efforts are so valiant, so worthy
I wish I could honour them
At least once before I go