The Madonna, a supermarket and fried chicken.

Here/May 2020

It was on Friday afternoon, just after visiting the statue of The Madonna that watches over the town, when i bumped into Simon in the supermarket carpark; he was wearing mauve trainers, brown trousers and a mauve top.

I was dressed in black. 

I had bought kitchen roll, peppers, feta cheese and soya milk – a feast is planned tonight for the return of the prodigal daughter. 

Thomas had purchased roast chicken – his youngest had requested it. 

We stood a meter or so apart.

‘’I’m ok ».

He wasn’t, tears welled up in his eyes more than once. 

I offered him a hug but i don’t think he heard; if he did, he ignored it. 

“There’s no news”.

I wanted to say something like ‘no news, is good news’ but in this case it probably isn’t, and it sounded trite; the circumstances, if not the location demanded a lot more. 

“Are you still not able to visit her?” 

Simon explained that she had been tested three times for the virus and that three times the test had come back negative. 

“But here symptoms are such that they are saying that the test results must be wrong”. 

It’s unlikely, and it’s not the problem either but he is unable to see his wife.

“She’s been moved to the dialysis ward…” His voice trailed off, the tears returned.

“Can you force a visit?”

It was a stupid thing to say but I had nothing else. 

“I have a doctor’s bag”, it was my wife speaking, clearly she was struggling too. 

“I could break in but then they would arrest me. It’s not really what I need at the moment”. 

I’m not sure what he needs, someone to say it will be alright when it clearly won’t be? I doubt it. Someone to ease her passing? 

Someone to let him say goodbye properly. I hope The Madonna was watching.