Threshold

There were words in the end, and an unlooked for passionate goodbye

Photo: © David Whyte

Threshold

There were words in the end,
and an unlooked for passionate goodbye,
a song for my father in the few moments
she was allowed to take off the mask,
and my own name said once with the
incredible effort of the last. Then we were all
words, helpless silence, or involuntary
movement in the room, myself telling
her she could go or stay,
my sister saying she was going to meet
the mother she hadn’t seen since
she was thirteen, almost shouting
she’s waiting for you, the numbers
on the machine steadily dropping
and my father’s restless hands unable
to brace the fall. My other sister
ignoring the machine, looked
straight into my mother’s eyes,
fierce and unrelenting,
proud of her right and refusal to relinquish
and my mother’s eyes equal to hers,
looked back in a fierce companionship
from far inside her going.

Then I heard my own voice again,
as if discovering some marvel
in her face, the knife-edge of a consummate
unlooked for joy, as she turned to go
where we could not follow.
My voice broke from some high
window that was not in the room
and I said look, look, she’s going,
in unwanted happy astonishment
surprised at the reversal
said as it was, like a young boy
all love and innocent broken promises
anticipating her arrival,
running to a door to greet her again.


-from Everything is Waiting for You