Bow with stars design

I am writing this on the back of a drug chart because the ward has run out of the good paper again, and because Mr Okafor in bed nine has been asleep for an hour and I have nothing to do with my hands. Sister Ruth says I must stop fiddling with the loose thread on my cardigan, but I can't help it. It's the only bit of colour I've got left on nights.

His granddaughter came in this evening with a parcel in brown paper, and inside was a bow, the sort you'd put on a Christmas present, made from black ribbon with silver stars cut out and sewn on. She had made it herself after school. She tied it to the bed rail so he could see it from the pillow, and he said it looked like something a magician would wear to a christening. Then he laughed so hard the monitor started complaining, and we all pretended we hadn't noticed.

Now the tails hang down past the rail and catch the light from the corridor each time the door swings. There are curls of thread at the ends, like the swirls on a birthday card, and a scatter of little dots where she pinned the loops. I keep thinking about how carefully she pulled each side even, checking one loop against the other the way you'd check a hem.

At four o'clock he woke and asked me whether it was still there. I said it was. He said good, then, and went back to sleep with one hand open on the blanket, as if he were holding the end of something. When the day staff come on I shall tell them to leave the bow where it is. Some things on a ward are allowed to be pretty.

Love, Jo