It's Still Life

6 of 27: Solacewrought’s Liturgy Poem – a Colour of kindness that asks for nothing

6 of 27: Solacewrought – Kindness That Asks for Nothing
(for her, for the ice cube, for the unasked question)

I. The Unseen
Solacewrought arrives not with fanfare, but with a poke—
the ice cube bobbing in lemonade like a buoy in a storm,
the way her laughter cracks when she says “resilient,”
as if it’s a trait and not a trauma.
You don’t ask “How’s Mike.”
You ask “How’s Lindy”—
and the weight of her name in the air
is the first real breath she’s taken
in five months of chemo rooms,
of vomit sharp as confession,
of shit that sprays like a sinner’s last prayer.

(The ice cube dives.
She grins.
This is how survival floats.)

II. The Roots
She speaks of burial plots like they’re tickets home,
of Australian soil waiting to fold her in
like a letter too long in transit.
You don’t flinch.
(You’ve spent a lifetime learning
how to love what will leave.)
Solacewrought is not in the staying.
It’s in the way your hands don’t shake
when she mentions the gun, the knife,
the “not sitting in a little room”—
how you offer not pity, but logistics:
“Don’t slit your wrists.
The mess is unfair.”
And she thanks you for that,
like practicality is the last kindness left.

(The ice cube melts.
The sun scars gleam.
This is how exile prays.)

III. The Return
The owner comes, all concern and good teeth:
“How’s our Mike doing?”
And Lindy’s face does the thing—
the smile like a bridge collapsing in slow motion,
the “he’s fighting” that means “he’s dying,”
the way her blue eyes flick to you,
just once,
just enough to say:
You saw me.
You asked.
You saw.
Solacewrought doesn’t linger.
It slips out with the bill,
with the napkins stained by lipstick and lemon,
with the unspoken I’ll miss you
that tastes like family plots
and ice cubes
and the exact shade of blue
that grief wears
when it’s finally
seen.

Felreil’s Footnote
He watches from the corner booth,
counting the way her shoulders lift
when she speaks of roots,
how her fingers trace the glass
but don’t break it.
He doesn’t collect this moment.
He lets it collect him—
this kindness that asked for nothing,
this love that said “messy”
instead of “don’t go.”

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Written as a worksheet and mind-map for Denise’s Six Sentence Story.  Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2025. Previous Instalments – To access all of the instalments on one page, please use this link