She screamed into the
dark
waving her arms like a
policeman directing invisible traffic in a bright pink pajama set.
I followed the detour
of her signs across my driveway and into hers
rerouted the plans for
my evening:
if past behavior
predicts future, this could take a while.
Tomatoes, she said with
her hands, gesturing around her kitchen
You take. Eat.
My son. J. I. M. Jim. He
brings tomatoes. Tomatoes. Tomatoes.
I eat. Eat.
Eat. Sick of tomatoes. No more.
Finished.
More, more, more. You take.
Jim brings more. You eat
them.
Good. Very good.
You eat. You like. In salad.
Delicious. Take more.
So many tomatoes, I say. Thank you.
Look good. Thank you.
I turn to leave, unsure
how to finish the conversation as I attempt to hold my tomatoes.
She grabs my hand, puts
the tomatoes on the table.
Come. She says. Must meet husband. In bed.
Sick. No talking. Very bad.
91 years old.
Woman comes to bathe
him, dress him. Nice man. Will like you. Meet my husband.
We round the corner
into a bedroom with a hospital bed and a twin bed beside.
She shakes his foot and
his eyes open, slowly.
He looks at me. At her.
At me.
She says something to
him I don't understand. He doesn't
either. She pats his hand.
He smiles, wiggles his
fingertips against his chest.
See? she says, beaming, proudly. He tries.
They look at me,
expectantly.
His blue eyes pierce my
skin, and inadequacy creeps up my back and across my face.
Nice to meet you. I live next door.
He stares, and I reach
over the bedrail to touch his hand.
He smiles, beautifully,
soulfully,
and 91 years of words
crash in my mind.
My husband. Me.
Married. 65 years. Married 65 years.
She pats his hand.
Very hard now, she
says.
We're still in love.
They both stare at me,
smiling,
awaiting any
communication,
breathing, together, unaware of the noise.
I say goodbye
and leave them
to fill in the empty
spaces I left,
knowing they're the
only two who can.
In my dark and empty
kitchen, I wash tomatoes
hoping to leave you
signs such that, when I reach the end,
and allow resignation
to live in my flesh as my only success;
when I invite Defeat into
my bones so she can live as Triumph at last;
you will love me harder when I speak through finger twitches, involuntary,
and love us together as we breathe our conversations.
Leave my long-sought
perfection under my skin,
soaked in by no
longer thirsting pores.
Siphon out my flaws
with kisses
trace tender fingers
over hidden scars
suck the ugly from me
and bury it deep between
your lungs and vocal chords
so you can forever sing my
essence
every time you breathe.
The irony of this poem
written for a Deaf man
who can no longer communicate
is the point of the
story.
Beautiful poem.
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