In the doorway standing

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.