I walked with some authority in the Hospital. The handful of others in the lift knew not whether I was a patient, visitor or staff. I carried a light weight briefcase; it contained my lunch not documents, I even fooled myself. I had journeyed there many times, directing people when they got lost, chatted with the tradesfolk as they went about their business and became abrasive when I could see carelessness or neglect by the nurses. Very few could read me. I was a closed book. I was capable, strong, able talk to specialists and cleaners alike. I fitted neck braces, massaged limbs, and read to this patient and chatted with others, I fetched cups of coffee. I discussed treatment; I assisted a patient to walk to the shower; I brushed hair, I applied moisturiser, and I called out the clues to the crossword for the patient who couldn’t sit upright to fill the answers in themselves. I accompanied patients to radiography, and held their hand when bloods were taken. I talked of gardens and weather and of people we both knew and of plans for the future. But there was no future, you slipped away without saying goodbye, or had you? And now I am left with this loss, a void that cannot be filled and now on my own I am always looking for you, you are everywhere but not here, not where I want you to be.