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Scratch Scratch, scratch, scratch in the night I fail to reach him though I break my skin searching for his skin. In this hospital bed he requests winding tape for a factory turbine – hallucinates the dull sheen of machine metal - in the ghost of a past life. Then enquires – ‘where is the bairn?’ I know not who – we are all grown, His children, grandchildren, save for the little one – just born – the one he will never know. He places both hands in mine, instructs me - I must click, click, click them together – saying this improves the circulation, then he pulls at my wedding ring and I try not to cry. |