ii.

The ward rang at one in the morning.
You were calling my name.
Come, Trudi,
they said.
And I came,
down the stairs
of my brother’s house
and into the rain.

I hadn’t driven for years.
The engine roared and whined
as I turned the car
in a tight, unfamiliar street,
rain on the roof,
lights coming on,
neighbours watching.

I didn’t know the way.

I drove up High Bank Lane
and the silent road took me
through black fields on either side.
My hands on the wheel were white,
and I followed my headlights,
navigating bends,
unable to anticipate what was ahead.
I drove down past the sleeping kebab shops,
into the hospital’s
lake of light,
the wipers
a beat to my panic.

When I pulled up,
a man
blundered out of the darkness,
running towards me
through the car park.
This is how I die,
I thought,
but he gave me
his parking ticket,
hours left on the clock.

I ran
through the corridors
cinematic
in blue ballet pumps.

I ran
to you
and you settled
at the sound of my voice.