…seeing my aunt in hospital

in the furthest bed from the corridor. Top floor. With a view that looked out over East London it seemed as if we were on top of White Hart Lane. My aunt lays scrunched up with a nebuliser over her face, misted puffs with every breath. I prepare myself for a stilted conversation as her eyes are shut. But she’s chatty, and lucid — reeling off who has visited and when. I ask her when she’s going home. She doesn’t know because it will be down to the physio signing her off. I ask her how she feels about going home. I realise that this is one of the first times I can remember where I’ve asked her something other than to recount an event. “Apprehensive”, she replies. And we talk about that until the nurses move her onto her side.