You do your best but I see the shadow shows, the man holding onto the only way he knows to row through his fears and sadness. Your formality in your high soft voice breaks my heart on hearing you. I cannot fight your battles or draw a sword on your behalf, but my arms are open, outstretched, always, and I will be the walls to the storm and keep you safe and strong. You are, behind your fifty years, still a child searching for answers in a sea of books and being. I don’t mind. That’s the wrong phrase. I don’t mind because I love it, all of you, cantankerous, out of touch, snobbish and cold, because I know it is you behind your long hours and cruel bosses, it is you who will kiss me and hold me with the sweetness and love no one has ever come close to. It is you who will sit through my rages and tears and insecurities with the patience of saints and the wisdom of ages. We are not children, nor adults when we hold each other, just two frightened humans in a beautiful, wicked world. And. I want to tell him everything’s gonna be Ok but it isn’t, but they do good work up at the Royal and I’ve seen these things get fixed in the past. My combats are filthy with blood and fecal matter and bits of bone embedded but I’m too hyped to vomit. I feel so inadequate. Your brain runs all the protocols but in the end you’re just left with a dying man and it’s always your fault. It has to be your fault—that’s what they pay you for. Sirens in the distance. I have Riley taped up – he’s clutching me and wheezing . . . I’m trying to get him into the recovery position without spilling his guts onto the lawn. “Jesus Boss,” he says . . . “Jesus Boss.” “It’s OK sarge. They’ll have you shipped in no time.” I love him. He’s a West Country man – unflappable – he knows how to work the boys – when to hurt them—when to let up – when to diss them – when to drop a kind word in their ears. We’re a group of terminal cynics. We have this constant love-hate thing. I try to distance myself from it all.
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