and emptied my garden.
First was my old friend, who decided.
He is the first sail I watched go small.
The not-knowing I carry still.
Then the friends who drifted, their windows lit,
the light never reaching me.
Then the lovers who wanted me
without the waiting room,
the pill organizer,
my father’s hands.
Three girls, grown into women I barely know,
a boy I read to until he slept,
all of them mine to love until the loving ended.
I love them still, and still their sails grow small
against the horizon.
I spent my life reading,
This morning, I watched light move
across the kitchen table
the way I’ve watched it every morning
since I came here alone.
A man’s hands rest on the wood.
I move them.
Now I see the dust.
The scratches in the wood.
The coffee ring from yesterday.
I leave it there.
Outside, something startles the sparrows.
They rise together,
then settle again.
The waves keep their rhythm.
The light is all there is.
How the wild raspberry becomes
more itself in the naming,
and more lost.
To see a thing truly
is to see it leaving.
The way my knees announce each stair.
The friends who say they’ll call.
The long silence after.
Once you learn to look at the particular shine
of rain on asphalt at dusk,
you cannot look away.
At the bus stop, someone steadies
an old man stepping down.
Takes his arm. Lets go.
While others hurry past,
I stay.
Mornings, I still write things down.
I write the names. The friends. The lovers.
The girls are women now. The boy stays behind.
A small bird trapped. My hand knocks the cup.
It breaks on the floor. I don’t get up.
They go onto the page and are gone.
Little did I know that getting old would be like this.
Not the dimming I expected,
but a terrible brightness,
each thing seen so clearly.
No small voice asking what happens next.
The ship comes in.
The shore is lit.
Far down the beach,
a dog runs toward someone
I cannot see.
The water darkens.
The light remains.
This beautiful shore.
Leave a Reply