my brother.

This room is very white, I whisper in his ear, because his eyes are closed and he can’t see this. I think I see movement beneath his eyelids though; up then down just quickly, like he’s agreeing. I move so that I am holding his hand. It has become half a machine and I can only see the round smoothness of two of his nails. I put his hand on top of mine, and gently touch the cream, straw, stiff tape around his wrist.
Everything in this room is white, except for you. His hand stiffens then, and tightens around mine, and I look at his face. His eyes are still closed, but tears are slipping through his silk and oil eyelashes and his forehead is contorted. I move to touch his face, to calm and say It’s ok, I’m here. No pain. But his hand grips harder and stills me. His mouth is open then, moving wordlessly, because of course he can make no words now.
Your palm is sweating. I say and his knuckled, white fingers spasm and release just a little. An unbending silver line hangs against his beating wrist. I can feel his pulsing, pulsing, wrist. I feel the sweat in my own palm and look at the cave between our netted hands. My skin is no longer white, his straw-tape is no longer white. We are both warm with sweated blood.