You’ve never told me
stories.
There aren’t even
distant memories;
that unmoving bundle on
the bed
is all I’ve ever known.
A young me would cower
at the door,
every year,
afraid of the
stillness around you;
the shadows around
where you lay.
I’d have to be coaxed:
Go closer. Let her see
your face.
“Hello ammoomma.”
A ritual chant
that lost its meaning
over innumerable vacations.
You’d smile sometimes.
Call me by a name
that never was mine.
The older me,
--the one with a book
in her hand always
--sought solace in the
quietness.
I remember the first
time I
tried to touch you.
No coaxing voices.
That shimmer of the old
fear
that melted after the
shock
at the warmth
of your unmoving hands.
Why did I expect
coldness?
Why did the tears well?
Years later, the ritual
remained,
but when I come back
this year
(I stayed away,
and now
the baby is due)
the bundle is missing.
I sit on the edge of
the empty bed
-- gingerly, still--
and I wish you were
around
for the New One.
She
--it’s She in my head
now
-- won’t even know
what it’s like
to seek stories
in the seeming silence
of the room.
In the rain dropping
off the eaves.
In the creaky fan.
In quiet rhythmic
breathing.
<go closer>
In bed sheet wrinkles.
In a warmth that was
supposed to be cold.
I couldn’t find it in
me
to believe in spirits.
(Did they fail, all those books?)
In that empty room
nothing remains for me.
There is now only the
faint remembrance
of grandma’s farts and
echoes.
<go closer let her
see your face>
