Sketch of Constance.

Pencil on Hahnemuhle Aquarelle mat paper 450 gsm

12” X 9”

It was just past 7 am when I walked out of Bethlehem Hospital.

I walked among the early risers in a daze.
The thinning fog inhaled what was left of my spirits and spat my ebbing energy into the gutter.
I was a lost soul, cold, exhausted, hungry and wet with nowhere to go.

She was already dead when I closed her eyelids. This final action confirming me as the technical executioner.
That crazy irrepressible kid reduced, in her last months, to reaching out with her eyes for morphine that was her only solace from the blinding pain.

And when the moment came there was no time for a mouthed goodbye.
The nurse said it was possible that she still could hear me even in her stillness.
So I spoke fast and cried I love you over and over till the nurse put her hand on my shoulder and nodded at my unasked question.
Then I saw that her eyes did not have so much pain anymore.
I was suddenly aware that I had been so afraid of losing her that all I had done was tell her she will be fine, both of us knowing it was more for my benefit than hers.

I have lain in bed many times talking to her memory.
I had since realised it was me I felt feel sad for.
I would gladly have substituted my life for hers but only the good die young. Something I have never qualified for even when I was her age.

I guess it has not been our best year Constance my dear.


*The persons portrayed in this story are fictitious.