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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