Sunlight / Dear Mum - by Graham Akhurst
ISLAND | ISSUE 159 
Dr Bentley let me take you out today. If you’re careful not to
overexert your poor mother. We plodded along the C ward halls
passing open doors to other people’s sickness. It was slow
going and we stopped often to untangle the drip line attached
to wheels that spun with a mind of their own. We eventually
caught the elevator from level three to the ground floor with a
young woman and her two children off home after seeing their
grandfather. Outside, tall silver buildings flanked the garden.
The journey had been well worth it for the smell of bellflowers,
kangaroo paws, hibiscus, and freshly cut grass. The colours,
too, were vivid in comparison to the stale ward with its plastic
plants, framed prints of the English countryside, and get-well
cards strewn over spare shelf spaces and little crannies in the
fluorescent rooms. We sat down at a long wooden table, drank
tea, and talked like we used to back home on the verandah
in Nundah. I couldn’t help but recall those fresh westerly breezes
off the ocean and over the wetlands, the hum of steady traffic
in the background, the flame tree in the front yard, and the
humidity and heat wrapped around us like a warm wet blanket.
At midday the sun was high and bright in the clear blue sky. You
took off your slippers, socks, and beanie, and walked your frail
body – with the hospital gown hanging loosely over you and the
wheels of your drip machine rattling – onto the lawn. Blades of
grass pocked through your brown toes and your feet became
the roots of an ancient tree. Warm light bathed your completely
hairless head. Your back straightened and you stood tall. You
looked up and a smile stretched like daybreak over your face,
something that I had not seen in what felt like a long time. In
that moment, I could tell the tall white pillar of the hospital and
the grey city full of shadows disappeared … ▼
This poem appeared in Island 159 in 2020. Order a print issue here.
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