In my head is a closed door—
It shut the day you died.
No longer opened by
a gentle knock, an unimpeded push inside
to encounter you
drinking mate at the table
a sideways grin, knitting needles
tapping out the rhythm
of your breath,
of the gold fleck in your eye.
In my dreams sometimes,
I visit you, lay my head upon your table,
snow falling outside
a black border collie exhausted at your feet.
But then I awaken and the door slams shut,
Whispers wither—¿Dónde estás , vos?
You fade like steam.
All that remains is the yerba mate gourd,
bitter leaves still damp,
a ball of raw wool
rolls under the table.
8 thoughts on “Closed Door”
This is so beautiful and so deeply felt, Carrie. Thank you for sharing.
Carrie, I so hear your voice in your writing. This is another lovely, heart-wrought piece. I sense your grief, and feel empathy. Thank you for sharing, yet again.
Tendremos cicatrizes permanentes por la falta de ella.
Thank you for this, Carrie. It is lovely.
Lovely and sad.
“Whispers wither—¿Dónde estás , vos?
You fade like steam.”
Ah Carrie, such a sad and lovely poem. The last image: the ball of raw wool that rolls away, leaves my heart heavy. Thank you for sharing your words that hold sorrow for us all.
Lovely tribute to your dear Ellen. I know you miss her.