Glass

Leaves the colour of Coleman's English Mustard shake from the trees, the sky is reflected in puddled fields. As I make the journey from London to Cheltenham the sun sets a pale yellow, golding to amber. Above the limes and sycamores, a group of starlings circle a roundabout. The clouds clear, tumbling to rocks that mountain above the horizon.
Cyclists in bright coats and helmets wait at traffic lights. Our patience has glassed to a thin pane of sand, ash and the limestone of these hills, worn thin and brittle with waiting. I pass through road works and speed limits, past brown heritage signposts, gravel scattered across chevrons. Red hawthorn startles from the hedgerow and a brown muck of seeds clutch at the ends of bare branches.
As soon as I arrive I demand information, an update, proper care and attention, in a reasonable, solid voice. A crescent moon rises and a stunted jet stream chalks the sky.
We are rewarded – a tiny jump of light in all this darkness. He's ready to be discharged, they say, when the team have made up their treatment plan. Dad's eyes flare and he makes a play of bolting for the door.
'What? Can I go now?'
I speak softly and place my hand on his arm.
Afterwards we play Scrabble, content with this small scrap of news. Saint. Quit. Oxen. Byes. He tells me about smoking, 'that's got to go,' and I wonder what other resolutions he's made. Though his time may be short, he isn't ready just yet.