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A Few Minutes After Nine by Charles Douthat


I

After Sunday another winter Monday, 

and some hours after Monday’s midnight 

his fourth week began. His fourth Tuesday 

alone with her, still on the five-to-noon shift 

he’d claimed arriving from the East Coast, 

choosing to remain on Eastern Standard Time. 

So he woke naturally to the slow, much-alike 

mornings. Bed-rails chroming brighter at dawn.   

Room-lamps paling. Windows sluggishly filling 

with light. Days imperceptibly coming to life 

as he fulfilled promises made to her 

and to himself: he would stay to the end;  

he would feel whatever there was to feel; 

he would remember how death came for her. 

II

So he’d prepared, opening himself daily 

to the possible hour, to the appearance 

and recognition whenever it came.

It came without warning that Tuesday,

first as a quickening, then as an exquisite 

intimacy, a solemn concentration 

entering the room. He felt joined by it.

Joined to it. Pictures on walls loomed close

and closer. Her vasolined lips parted 

as if to speak, though she was days now 

beyond speech. Her brow smoothed.  

Her breath dwindled and lulled.  

Or what he thought was a lull.    

Then it happened. A few minutes after nine.    

No other breath. Only a final flutter 

as flesh sank at the folds of her neck,   

his mother’s delicate parting move.

III

He wasn’t disappointed. It wasn’t occasion 

for disappointment. Yet he’d hoped for more.  

Selfishly, he’d wanted a last sign or gesture.   

Or more grandly, more beautifully,  

he’d hoped to witness, as in a dream or poem, 

bright soul released from worn body.   

Was it so wrong, this wish to experience 

at the last her imperishable self, 

a spirit he’d known his whole life by way 

of feeling? Why not show herself plainly    

in a last dance before vanishing?   

But as it happened he sensed no presence,

no release or escape, no confirmation 

of his mother’s faith. Nothing to console 

beyond a dry sense of accomplishment. . .    

that the last task they’d ever conceive 

and carry out together was achieved. 

IV            

Her mouth had fallen open. Standing over her,

he saw a gray, fissured tongue

and yellowed teeth. His hands reached  

to close the mouth, held it closed. .  .

as days before the nurse had suggested,   

whispering, Before rigor sets in.   

Her chin felt warm. And either from that touch 

or his letting go, a greater feeling rose.  

Not mourning or sorrow. Not spiking grief.  

But a child-like sense of discovery,  

an excitement, as if truth’s long-hidden shape  

had been thrillingly revealed.

It was so simple. She had loved him.

He’d loved her. So obvious. Yet suddenly 

amazing. She was gone. He remained.   

Also amazing. He longed to speak,

to summon right and perfect words 

for unexpected joy. Why be sorry?

She’d lived her life. Now she was dead. 

Forever and always dead.  

She was complete and he was glad.   

V

Soundlessly a digit on her bedside clock

changed. He caught sight of the movement, 

noted the time, as a nurse had also instructed.   

From an open jar of skin cream on the bureau 

a familiar fragrance. And gradually 

in the spare morning light his exaltation 

drained. What to do now? Whom to call?   

But he remained in his chair, 

registering the bed-blanket’s drape, 

the body’s absolute stillness.    

He grew aware of an unfamiliar silence—

the stitch, stitch, unspooling thread 

of a particular silence—then rising in him,

mixing with the moment, 

a memory of the ancient camellia bush 

outside her bedroom window

where now—just as some fifty years before

when his mother would call him 

to witness the eerie hoverings—

a hummingbird fed on scarlet flowers.


Charles Douthat is a poet, retired litigator and visual artist whose book of poems, Blue for Oceans, won the PEN New England Award.  Individual poems have been featured in Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, Writers Almanac and The Threepenny Review.  He received an MFA from Warren Wilson College.  Learn more at charlesdouthat.com. 


29 August 2022



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