Is death black, or can it be white?
Damn the young surgeon who had told her in front of the child that there was nothing they could do.
Not a thing.
Don’t they teach interpersonal skills in med school these days?
She knows she’s dying. She’s old enough to know. Keep her comfortable. Stay with her. By her side. In John’s bed.
She’s seen little John being removed from the ward. Never came back, the poor child.
It can be any colour you want it to be, my child. Would you like it to be white?
I want it to be turquoise.
Like the sky in granny’s unfinished painting.
Like the pebbles in John’s colouring book.
Was John’s turquoise you think?
Will yours be?
I want the same colour as you, and granny, and John.
It will be, my child, if you want it to be.
(c) Ash N. Finn, 2017