They’re all gone now
the excitements in this house
Three generations.
Three merry, quixotic kids.
A black Lab that loved salads.
The baby suddenly
on the scene (after the daughter parachutes
into skid row)—and then
there are more of us
to fall in and out of love with
every day.
Every day.
More dental visits, more hands to hold,
more apologies, more praying in the middle of the night.
In the night.
Blurry days between one decade
and the next.
Sometimes doves sing in our windows,
sometimes cop cars stop by.
Sometimes silence just waits
out there.
Waits. Waits.
Grandma dies.
The kids find mates.
And one copper sunset, the husband
sits still as a moon rock.
A moon rock.
And for the first time, dear Self,
you make coffee for one.
Just one.
And for a long time, you read the paper feeling
him in the next chair
until one day truth
seems less paranormal
and you remember his green chili omelettes
only on his birthday.
His birthday.
And then you ask and ask and ask
when should we leave that house
and we wait and wait
for a signal
from the forest, from the ball of yarn,
from the olive oil, from the twigs,
from the dead squirrel on the sidewalk.
On the sidewalk.
Until that rainy night
it comes in the candle,
in the red halo of the wick.
The house looks different.
Less familiar. Less young. Less ours.
Less. Less. Less.
And we are overcome with the vision
of a small boat, a light wind on the boat,
a motor humming:
Follow me. Follow me.
So we empty the closets,
pack the trophies,
shut the blinds,
and lock the doors
Lock, lock, the doors.
And I remember him.
Dear husband, Where do you
sleep tonight? Tonight?
I want to believe.
Believe. Believe.
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