Yellow flowers on a bedside. There was a joke there, pretty funny the day before but now forcefully put from mind. There’s nowhere for the eye to rest comfortably; worried faces, worrying machines, and in the bed itself – less a presence now than an absence; not the presence of a very ill body, but rather a body-shaped absence of health.
We don’t dare speak of the possibilities that come unbidden to mind; even the doctors skirt around saying it outright, though anyone could tell from their tone, their faces, that they don’t see a chance.
Yellow flowers, already wilting.