Read Online The Last Leaves Falling by Sarah Benwell - Free Book Online

think, for half a second, of going to KyoToTeenz and chatting with MonkEC, but I remember yesterday, and my stomach roils. I pick up Samurai Death Poems instead, heave myself onto the bed and lean back against the pillows, and then let my fingers trail across the paper and feel the words before I read them.
    Many of the poets talk of death, the act, as a thing that sets them free. They say:
The sword.
And like a bird, I fly.
    and:
The final thing,
a gate,
closed on the way out.
    and:
Death is death . . .
    I like that. The samurai thought deep and wide, and accepted their fate, embraced it. I think, when I have to go, I’d like to go like that.

20
    I sleep with the poetry beneath my pillow in the hope that maybe it will filter through my dreams, allow me to wake up a better person, but the first thought when I awaken is not, honor, valor, focus or what can I make of today? It is, IneedtopeeIneedtopeeIneedtopee! I lie here for five seconds, pondering my next move, but it’s clear I’m going to have to get up. Fast.
    I push up and back with my hands so that I’m almost sitting up, and swing my legs out of the duvet. Except, my arms cannot support my weight and I fall awkwardly back on the bed. I try again, half-crossing my legs as I push, willing myself to make it.
    And I’m up. But the intense movement squeezed at my insides and my bladder burns. I concentrate on holding it; imagine the urine flowing back the other way, away from the danger zone. It’s better if I do not breathe, hold everything tight and do not move an inch. But the bathroom is across the hall.
    I shift my weight, tentatively, and I can feel the liquid rushing downward. I freeze, breathe in, and out again, wait for the urgency to pass, and try again, this time pushing myself up off the bed and swinging around in one swift movement, so that when I fall back I will land in my chair.
    Oh.
    As I stand, I feel the rush, hot and urgent, and I cannot stop it. Warm wetness streams down the inside of my pajama pants and, as I land, pools in the seat of my wheelchair.
    Damn it.
    DAMN IT.
    It takes an age to transfer back to the bed, strip off and wipe my chair dry, and hot shame courses through me the whole way through the process.
    Why didn’t I move faster? Wake earlier? Hold it in?
    I bet the legendary samurai never pissed themselves.
    Stupid!
    Finally, I bundle my clothes into the laundry, trying not to think of what my mother will say, and head for the shower.
    •  •  •  •
    “You were up early this morning.”
    “Mmm.” I try not to look conspicuous as I munch on a slice of thick white toast and berry jam.
    “Sleep okay?”
    “Yes, thanks.”
    “Okay.”
    Mama shoves a pile of papers into her work satchel, and glances at the clock, then me. She thinks I do not notice, but she does this every morning, wrestling with that awful question: Should she stay at home with her dying son, or go to work and earn a wage to put food on the table?
    But this morning, she pauses.
    She pours herself a coffee and hugs it to her chest. “Sora, I think we need to talk about the park.”
    “No, it’s okay, Mama. Anyway, you will be late.” Yesterday, I was desperate to talk, but now, suddenly, I do not want to. Not yet.
    She glances at the clock again, and sighs. “You’re right, I really have to go. But it’s not okay; we’ll talk tonight?”
    “Okay.” I swallow another bite of toast to hide my grimace.
    “You’ll be okay today, won’t you?”
    “Of course.”
    “Okay, good!” She smiles, swallows her coffee in three gulps, and picks up her house keys. “Listen, I’ve had an idea. I’ll tell you everything tonight.”
    I don’t like the sound of this idea . More hospitals, perhaps? Tests? Aerated therapy dreamed up by monks who live in the sea?
    But you do not argue with my mother. And besides, she’s in a hurry. “Have a good day!”
    “We’ll talk when I get back!” she calls out from the hallway, and she’s gone.
    Once, Mama