For Me There

On Wednesday he said “don't come,

I wouldn't make good company today”

then Thursday my mother said

"pack your things and the baby's too,"

and I knew he was leaving the hospital, as

Monday's cat-scan showed no cancer remaining.

So we drove into the cold morning

the sun a desultory white eye, and when

we arrived my mother was not there

so I called the hospital to see how he was.

“You a relative, honey?” came a lilting voice.

I said, “his daughter.” “Oh,” she said,

“Missuh Shavin, he pass this mohnin. at 7 a.m.”

I ran to Juanita, my mothers black maid,

big and billowy as a lifeboat, and into her

generous bosom wailed like the pathetic

pasty girl I was, like I knew a thing or two

about suffering.

In those moments (rather schizophrenic, I suppose),

I recalled former battalions of servants

my mother employed for peanuts in a time

before big backpacks and suitcases on wheels,

dragging their humongous, paper bags

down steep streets, and up, to clean, dust,

de-wrinkle and and generally make acceptable

moneyed women's mansions.

My mother returned, and Juanita and I separated

instantly as though having been joined in sin,

and reassumed our separate worlds.

I'll tell you:  as much as I, she had loved him.

He died on the bathroom floor. Heart-attack,

they said. I wondered, did he taste fear? 

What did he smell?  Did he bang the towel rack

or basin?  Did he cry out, or try? What was

his final thought?  All questions for the air.

Later, I took three locks of hair: one for me,

one each for my traveling siblings.

I forgot all about Juanita, and she had been there.

She was there.

Copyright Julianza Shavin 2008