Louise and I
Twilight comes silver to the bay;
the twisted trunks of oaks frame between them
soft sky and the water's muted sheen.
She has seen it all before,
this wisp of a woman at my side.
Widowed in age,
she then walked these streets with a new love,
and in age became a bride.
Now, again, she is alone.
Now again, mateless, her home seems not a home.
"Seems this time of day is so lonesome,"
she says for the countless time.
Treacherous vessels in her brain spilled their blood
and robbed her of short-term memory.
Having no way to know what's she's already said to me,
she has no way to downplay what is ever on her mind.
Louise is lonesome for a companion that I could never be,
but, still, now, she insists on risking limb for me:
ignoring my cries of "No! Come back!"
she ventures two steps too far into the wood.
The undergrowth clutches at her feet.
I hover close, holding my breath.
I dare not keep her from this risk,
the risk of doing good.
Tottering, she turns, triumphant,
and presents her gift to me:
handfuls of brilliant yellow leaves
which I will press and incorporate into craft.
Arm in arm, we continue on.
We glimpse a small boy and his dog playing by the street.
For a moment, the moment grants me my deepest desire:
time turns back to the hour when my own son was small.
I would fall on my knees before the child and gather him to me,
but with two more steps I clearly see his face, smiling,
unfamiliar.
I stand in your place, Louise.
I can still remember what I say,
but like you, the heart of my heart
beats in a different day.
This twilight world is stark.
We see far too much in this concealing dark.
Painfully, we make our way up your steps into the house
where the love that most makes us glow is gone.
With whatever kind of love that is left,
let us go in together, and together
make this home.
Denise Wong
November
20, 2001