Baby memories

(Remembering my daughter as a newborn lying next to me)

I woke up gasping

In the dead of the night

What was this steely grip

Around my neck

This leaden weight on my stomach

That awoke me from deep slumber?

I groped in the dark

And the steel turned to rose

Smooth as satin, soft as silk

It was my daughter’s baby arm

And the lead on my stomach

Her leg curled around me.

Her breath sweet tickled my chin.

The fresh smell of her skin

Pervaded my senses

Tender as baby cucumber

I smiled to myself

As I looked at her tranquil face

Innocent, serene, secure

I felt my heart swell with love

For this warm being that loved me,

Wanted me, and demanded

My attention even in sleep. 

Seeing Death

(grandfather just minutes before his death)

What was he seeing? The old man in the hospital.

The look of dumb agony, the appeal for relief, of helpless love, eyes fixed on me.

Why did they move away? What drew their gaze?

They look to my right, they look to my left,

They look behind me.

I turn behind: no one there.

No one to my right

No one to my left.

Yet he seems to see something.

Why did his eyebrows lift?

Why did his lips part?

I am frightened.

I press his old, gnarled hand.
He looks back at me.

His look relaxes, the eyebrows untangle.

I am relieved.

There again, he looks away from me

Looks to my right

Looks to my left

To my right, to my left

My right, my left

Right, left

Right, left.

Then above my head, and all over the room.

The eyes move dizzy-paced.

Fixes on the door, then the window

Perturbed, amazed,

Terrified, maybe horrified?

Then back to my face.

Puzzled, worried

Does he see me?

Does he know me?

No more.

What does he see?

Why are his lips sealed?

So near a secret, yet so far.