A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

Fragility: you look

every one of your ninety-three years

lying here in this hospital bed,

this temporary holder of your body,

with your legs contracted in pain.

Ischaemic toes.

Your accent sounds Russian. You

describe it as ex-USSR.

You say White Russian

and, despite my knowledge of history,

I am distracted by thoughts of vodka

with kahlua and milk.

And yet, you fought for Stalin.

But who would I be to judge?

I was not there.  I cannot begin to imagine

the compromises you may have been

forced to make in cold winters,

moons before I was born.

Captured by Germans, and held

against your will of course,

and forced to work.

I was a medic, like you, you tell me.

You volunteer no more about that time,

and part of me is grateful not to know.

Reinvention: after the war

you had to be something new.

A name change, different scenery.

Welcome to the Lucky Country.

I wonder if you were given the option

to remain a doctor, would you have?

You are proud of your promotions,

your achievements in your new role.

You have made something

of this life.

I wonder what haunts you,

and if you have actually been happy here.

Could you ever have imagined

lying here towards the end of your days,

in pain, helping future doctors learn

about medicine and life?

I wonder what you would change,

if you could start it all over.