HAND ON HEART

The guard
was embarrassed,
eyes downcast,
the timbre of his voice
broken,
almost a gasp,
fingers entwined,
rubbing the heels of his hands
together.

“it’s my mother,
… cancer,
she needs an operation,
can you lend me …”.

His boss listened
and found
he couldn’t swallow
past the lump in his throat,
the sting of salt
attacked his pupils,
his gut dropped,
just as it did
when he saw his
son take a nasty fall.

That was two weeks ago,
now, whenever they meet,
the guard greets him,
by placing his hand
over his heart.

They met again
this morning,
the guard -
an empty shell,
slumped shoulders,
watery red irises,
teeth biting his bottom lip.

“I’m sorry sir …
… my mother died”.

the guard apologises
to his boss who is
dumbfounded,
he never knew
the guard’s mother.

Banknotes
in the guard’s hand shake,
moved by emotion
as he tries to repay
the loan.

I struggle to hear the reply.
It’s said in a low voice,
conspiratorially,
secretive almost.

“I didn’t give you
any money,
I gave it
to your mother.
She’s taken it
to heaven.
That’s a good place
for my money to be,
I know I’ll get it back,
from her,
with interest”.

I watch
as the guard’s
tears hang as dew
on the end of a leaf,
then flow like lines of
mercury over
his brown cheeks.
His hand still grips
the money
as he places it
over his heart.

“Thank you sir”,
he sobs.

I stop listening.

T