I wonder about people who feel like they never quite belong and
where that comes from. Here is a poem trying to begin thinking about this
hard think... But this is how I tend to do my thinking. It is where I feel most
like I belong.
In the doorway standing
Was she always nothing
more than a thing
in the way –standing in the door
as we cleared the dishes--
waiting for someone to notice
that she had done all the work;
waiting still for the praise
she already had received.
Nothing could fill the emptiness
that pinned her to the floor right
in the middle of the path
to the kitchen and the sink.
Hands full of plates—unable
to restrain myself--
I remember leaning close, whispering:
Mom, you’re in the way.
And slipping past.
And coming back for the serving
platter and the gravy boat, I tried
to get her to smile but saw
her face gone
blank, her eyes dark as stones
and turning to look again
she was no more.
The end of every holiday.
And now I stand in the doorway
studying
her milky flesh
and the pink of her hand clinging
to the bed rail, listening
to the monitor and waiting for her
to awaken.
Her eyes open –Herman—she says,
and smiles and turns away
with a moan,
apologizing to the wall:
You don’t have to stay. I’m not good
company tonight. I can’t find
my teeth, and I need changing.
Please,
push
that red button
before you go.
