I read Mearn’s poem ‘Antigonish’ and thought how, with very few changes, it described my situation. But in doing that it made me wonder what makes me hold on in the face of daily proof that the wife I knew is simply not there anymore. I am obviously capable of amazing self-deception, and the changes are so slow. Wondering about this, I went to our photograph albums. The lady I had just left in the CH. was absolutely not the sparkling vibrant woman of the photographs. She often looks at me with a questioning look, as if not at all sure who I am. We don’t converse anymore, our exchanges are limited to a discussion about when will she be going ‘home’. If I never visited again I am not sure she would know or care. But, even though the essence has gone and she is just a shell, I am like a ship-wrecked sailor clinging to the wreckage of his ship. To mix my metaphors, the cavalry won’t be riding over the hill any time soon, miracles aren’t for us lesser mortals. Stupid isn’t it?! Agony. Yesterday upon the stair, I saw my wife tho’ she wasn’t there. She wasn’t there again today, I wish she hadn’t gone away… When I came home last night at three, My wife was waiting there for me But when I looked around the hall, I couldn’t see her there at all!! Last night I saw upon the stair, My poor dear wife who wasn’t there, She won’t be there again today How I wish she’d not gone away… With apologies to W.H, Mearns’ Antigonish.