He is the candle – by Lucy Norton

I am lying on a grey-blue vinyl couch in the ICU visitor’s room. I wonder why they don’t have rooms with beds for family members awaiting the inevitable. It is difficult to think of sleeping, but I am so tired. An hour ago, my sister Jessie and I scurried out of the hospital entrance with two hand-rolled joints like a couple of sneaky teenagers. We smoked in the bushes beside the stairs. It was well past midnight, but the fluorescent lights could’ve fooled you.