The Silence

On those days when, because you felt attacked,
You just won’t speak, it’s like a dress rehearsal
For one of us being dead. (So, a prehearsal?)
Can’t speak for you, how you’d react,
But for myself, if you die, I know only:
I’d be lonely.

After the slow dispersal
Of the acquisitions of the years
From yard sales, impulses, unfinished plans--
After the children’s and grandchildren’s tears,
(Their own mortality foretold in Gran’s)
There’d be an emptiness.

Routine unravels:
I’d need an act of will to even shave--
The dogs don’t care how I behave.
All I need’s here in cupboards, shelves, on line.
I’d be just fine...
Apart from growing restlessness.

I guess I’d restart travels.
Meanwhile I’ve learned how it will be
To live without you, just your memory,
A silent apparition in this room and that,
The ghost of one who used to laugh and chat.

Robin Helweg-Larsen

If you have any thoughts on this poem, Robin Helweg-Larsen would be pleased to hear them.