It’s getting dark early. The yellow light seeping from the lamp on the mantelpiece dissolves before reaching the corners of the room. He is sitting opposite me, tall and dark-haired, an air of confident irony hanging from his lips. Leaning forward, and looking straight into my eyes, he asks:
“Are you incontinent?”
I shift in my chair and, clearing my throat, I reply. He jots down something in his notebook.“Do you wear these things that women . . .” his voice trails off.
“Eh, you see . . .” I cough and cough.
While he records my answer, I manage to find my bearings. I know he does this all day, every day, it’s his job. He visits people with disabilities to assess the level of care they need. Can you cook, can you dress unaided? Can you leave the house on your own. All the practical details that together amount to an identity that is meant to be you. He is staring at the darkness spreading outside. It must be getting to him. Rumor has it that after work, he leaps into his red Boxster and drives on the autobahn for hours at high speed.
hovering
the kestrel observes
its prey
Drifting Sands issue 24, 2023, p. 91.
A very good haibun, on a subject unusual for the haibun I guess!
A really powerful combination of prose and haiku (I forget the term) But who is the kestrel and who is the prey? Thank you for this one.