T is in the lounge with the man from the hospital
spouting nonsense about Africa
no offence will be taken
He will be sectioned tonight
he had gotten into the bad habit
of knocking on the doors of unknown neighbours
in a rough part of Liverpool
to give them hugs and ask what they were hiding
My father picked him up
The hospital will mend him
They will calm his mind and quieten his tongue
But they will not wrestle that name from him: Rebecca
He talks of Fiona too,
But I know her.
He is mad.
There is an uneasyness to this
We do not know what he will do next.
Do you think things will ever be the same again? She asks.
We should not think beyond tomorrow, I reply.
And we drive away, leaving T to sleep
But he is not sleeping
He is playing pool with an elderly patient
and I am glad to learn of this.
He is bought a camera
after he returns home
And he has a blue lens and a green lens
to photograph the beams of sun cutting through the clouds
in various false hues.
he takes pictures of the city
but my favourite snap of all is the close up of some dog sick
he finds behind my grandfather's garden wall
And we love him
and he returns unto himself
a man of certified sound mental health
but things have changed
perhaps for the best
as I learn to see the madness in everyone else
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