02-15-2016, 05:43 AM
From a full stop I begin
my walk down the sun bright hallway
lined by her family.
Silent sentries, their eyes averted, faces down;
they do not acknowledge me.
In the middle of the hall
plays the youngest of them all --
Her fifth generation --
Skip, laugh, chase,
yards from where she lay dying.
Feeling small, awkward
I pass on to her room.
More are here, much older,
packed tight, embers
surrounding her with their warmth.
I sit by her husband
already seated,
his gaze uncertain yet fixed,
black hand tight on his cane.
I hold her hand, reflect on her
over ninety years;
of certain pain, injustice in the rural south,
how she has refused to define herself,
or her family, on those terms.
I say to her what I must.
She already knows, but I have to admit
just as much. I cannot mend any more.
She becomes still. Her hand in mine yet,
I tell her husband
"She has passed".
Looking nowhere, eyes empty -- he asks no one
"And now what will I do?"
I give him what I can, but
I must go.
It has rained, and warm
dappled sunlight filters
through the paneled window
onto the children still playing.
Her sentries turn to comfort me as I leave.
Original is below
Silent sentries flank the long hall,
faces averted, their disposition clouded.
In the middle plays the youngest
of her family, fourth maybe the fifth generation;
I am unsure.
They laugh, skip, dance even mere yards
from where she lay dying.
Small, awkward but undaunted as
I cannot hold the inexorable;
I cross to her room.
Even more are here, older,
packed tight, embers that surround
her with their warmth
as hers lessens.
Her husband sits by her head,
his gaze fixed, uncertain, hand
tight on his cane.
Beside is the empty chair
for me.
Her eyes of nearly ninety years
soften as I hold her black hand in my white hand,
and anchor myself. Relief comes as I hold
her and her husband in my mind,
all others receding dimly. I disclose
what she already knows.
They all do.
Sooner than expected
she becomes still. Her hand in mine yet,
I tell her husband
"She has passed".
Looking nowhere, eyes empty -- he asks no one
"And now what will I do?"
I reach inside but find
nothing
except that which does not grow back,
leaving me less than I was.
Forward I must grow -- as forward I turn to go.
The children continue to play
in the warm dappled sunlight
filtered through the paneled window.
She has her victory. Her calm
inscrutable wisdom not lost
but manifest in all those who
surround, accept and forgive
and comfort even me.
[quick note: this was brought to mind by an earlier poem (that seems to have disappeared) that was about giving negative news.]
my walk down the sun bright hallway
lined by her family.
Silent sentries, their eyes averted, faces down;
they do not acknowledge me.
In the middle of the hall
plays the youngest of them all --
Her fifth generation --
Skip, laugh, chase,
yards from where she lay dying.
Feeling small, awkward
I pass on to her room.
More are here, much older,
packed tight, embers
surrounding her with their warmth.
I sit by her husband
already seated,
his gaze uncertain yet fixed,
black hand tight on his cane.
I hold her hand, reflect on her
over ninety years;
of certain pain, injustice in the rural south,
how she has refused to define herself,
or her family, on those terms.
I say to her what I must.
She already knows, but I have to admit
just as much. I cannot mend any more.
She becomes still. Her hand in mine yet,
I tell her husband
"She has passed".
Looking nowhere, eyes empty -- he asks no one
"And now what will I do?"
I give him what I can, but
I must go.
It has rained, and warm
dappled sunlight filters
through the paneled window
onto the children still playing.
Her sentries turn to comfort me as I leave.
Original is below
Silent sentries flank the long hall,
faces averted, their disposition clouded.
In the middle plays the youngest
of her family, fourth maybe the fifth generation;
I am unsure.
They laugh, skip, dance even mere yards
from where she lay dying.
Small, awkward but undaunted as
I cannot hold the inexorable;
I cross to her room.
Even more are here, older,
packed tight, embers that surround
her with their warmth
as hers lessens.
Her husband sits by her head,
his gaze fixed, uncertain, hand
tight on his cane.
Beside is the empty chair
for me.
Her eyes of nearly ninety years
soften as I hold her black hand in my white hand,
and anchor myself. Relief comes as I hold
her and her husband in my mind,
all others receding dimly. I disclose
what she already knows.
They all do.
Sooner than expected
she becomes still. Her hand in mine yet,
I tell her husband
"She has passed".
Looking nowhere, eyes empty -- he asks no one
"And now what will I do?"
I reach inside but find
nothing
except that which does not grow back,
leaving me less than I was.
Forward I must grow -- as forward I turn to go.
The children continue to play
in the warm dappled sunlight
filtered through the paneled window.
She has her victory. Her calm
inscrutable wisdom not lost
but manifest in all those who
surround, accept and forgive
and comfort even me.
[quick note: this was brought to mind by an earlier poem (that seems to have disappeared) that was about giving negative news.]