Visiting Hours

I wash the cup. There is another cup beside it. I wash that one. The second cup is clean already. I put them upside down and water gathers at their rims. My sister calls from St Thomas’ and says no change. I ask what she means. I know what she means. She means she has nothing new to tell me and has called. I ask whether he’s eaten. She says a little. I ask how little. I know how little. Half. Two spoonfuls. No, the small spoon. I write this down. I have begun to write things down. The paper says soup, which will be no help to anyone. Below it I have written the time and crossed out the time. Outside, someone is teaching someone else to reverse. They come towards the bins and stop. They go away. They come towards the bins. The instructor’s hand appears. My sister says she needs to go home and I say of course. She says she needs to wash her hair and I say of course in this my voice that makes her explain about her hair. I have washed two cups. I have moved the car. I have bought the kind of biscuits he asked for on Tuesday. It is Thursday. I have continued to be useful to Tuesday. When we were children he could hear a tap left running from the other end of the house. He’d shout until we shut it. I turn the tap off. I had turned it on to wash the cups. My sister calls again. She is outside the hospital. Did you leave, I ask, though I can hear the traffic. She doesn’t answer. I say I’m putting my shoes on. I am putting my shoes on. One is on. There is something wrong with the other lace. I pull it and the knot gets smaller.