Gazing into her placid forehead,
I know she never fell in love
with a drug addict, never
subsisted on lentils and rice.

And I forgot his name, but not his
Thin build, his love of the macho Hem,
And that he drove to Flagstaff, four hours
Away to die parked in the forest.

A house divided against itself won’t prosper.
If I’m divided I’m conquered, right?

I am filled with dread every time I call that this might be the time I hear "the number you have dialed has not been recognised" and every time I get through to the voicemail, I begin my recording with a sigh of relief. It’s not logical, this voicemail obsession. No one can hear them, more specifically she cannot hear them.

In the reality of our pandemic, relatives are left to fret between updates from the hospital. They are not allowed to visit. I cannot connect to my patients; the protective masks we wear reduce the healthcare providers to a uniform. I cannot smile. I am not a reassuring face, but a fogged set of goggles.

Maybe a morbid and narcissistic part of me thought I might achieve posthumous success as a writer. We love consuming dead people’s art, especially if the artist committed suicide. These dead lines of prose might have more value if their author was dead too.