Almost strangers

We were all encased in our private domains. We weren’t invited to party elsewhere. We didn’t drive but we didn’t drink. We watched the wedding of almost strangers. On the telly; on our own. We watched the guests in Westminster Abbey. We judged the hats of almost strangers. We failed to enter their private world. We stayed in our homes. The shops were empty. We didn’t gather. We didn’t care. We all switched off at the boring speeches. We all drifted off and did different things.

We gathered in a public place. We worried. We cared. Desperate to help. We stared at the patient. We touched him. We stroked him. We tried to enter his private world. We all signed his book in case he survived. We bonded with visitors who were almost strangers. We formed a community – a makeshift network. We all compared notes on making a difference. We brought him juice. We brought him fruit. We brought him chocolate. We badgered nurses. We gave our time. We tried to reach him. We humanised the hospital in case he could hear us. We chatted. We laughed. To raise his spirits. To raise our spirits. It was fun. It was desperate. We groped in the dark. We helplessly watched as he sweated and suffered. We tried to interpret his feverish speeches. We shamelessly watched the most personal of battles.

And always we wondered, how could it happen? A strong healthy man cut down in his prime. As if he were governed by natural laws – of princes and paupers, pomp and disease.