- I’ve brought books of stories I can read to her.
- My brother has come with her favorite tenors
- and a new CD player. There are things we want
- to tell her, about the new great granddaughter
- who carries her name, about the fine apartment
- where we’re moving Dad. We want to tell her
- how amazed we are by the miracle we’ve found
- in her accounts, the safety net she’s woven for him
- with her thrift and savvy. Important things—
- we think—for us to say, for her to hear, before she goes.
- Her deaf ear is all she offers, her hearing side
- deep in the pillow. The nurses gently turn her head
- back to listening position. Instantly, resolutely, repeatedly,
- she clamps the good ear down, reclaiming the silence.
- Deprived of words, I resort to osmosis, smoothing
- her favorite tearose cream into her fevered arms,
- telepathing assurances that we’ve got Dad covered,
- that her career of managing him is complete,
- her successors in place, that she’s left nothing undone.
- She’s always made a show of not hearing
- the things we’ve had to say, as if they were
- of no consequence. This time she isn’t pretending.
- We are speaking only of things she’s already left behind.
- The story of this life and the song of here, have ended.
- Her good ear is turned to hear the next call.
