Ellen June Wright

Mother calls to remind me she is going.
I ask where she’s going and if she knows when.
This is how she speaks of death.
In translation, what she means is she’s lonely.
I cannot say I don’t feel up to it
or how much I miss my home when I’m away—
how homesick I get for my familiar surroundings.
I cannot speak of the delicate balance that is daily living,
avoiding life’s fissures and chasms.
There’s very little of me when I’m with her.
I’m silent as the muted wind.
All her days should be filled with sunshine and light
showers in the afternoon to break the island heat.
The trip to see her seems long and hard,
so many hours of travel, but if I can go one more time,
I’ll face what I don’t want to face, make preparations,
drag bags like a mule, steel my jaw
and turn my profile south and prepare to fly.
Soon the final bells will toll for one or both of us;
soon a pine box will be carried down
the church aisle for one or both of us.
There’ll be no turning back then.
When all is said and done, only the memory
of everything we did before the end will linger.