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There is a ruthlessness steals in,
A hardening that few resist,
All’s fair in love and war, but death’s
Stern messenger will not be kissed—
Nor will he soften, treat or deal,
But soon returns from whence he came,
His words, like shards of razor wire
Leave little room for hope’s slim frame.
If courage shrivels, what is left
But gallows humour—or despair?
Defiance visits for a while,
Grows wistful, then vacates his chair.
One reeks of one’s mortality,
One’s friends retreat to guard their own—
For in their heart and minds they know:
We’re born, we live, we die—alone.
Nor do I in any way blame such friends. Who has not shrunk from visiting mates about to die? What can one say? What consolation can one bring? This is not the nature of most ordinary friendships and each of us instinctively shields ourself—for our own sanity and day-today wellbeing—from what we know to be true, but do not care to dwell upon, viz: our own mortality. Millions of years of human evolution have taught us this unspoken truth. And truth it is, despite all protestations to the contrary. Besides, may people who find themselves in such an unenviable position do not want visitors, although they do not know how to say so without causing offense. Just think of your own reaction each time you leave a hospital having visited a friend or relative. Is there not a secret elation that you are out in the open air, perhaps bathing your face in the sudden sunshine, rather than lit by a neon glare, muttering platitudes, scoffing the grapes you brought, in the grimly cheerful confines of what lies behind those glass doors? For most of us, duty brought us there. And duty is not friendship.
