My fathers aunt hated goodbyes.
She helped raise my father, who had lost both parents
At a young age; so in some ways
She was the only mother he ever knew.
The trip to see her was a long one,
So we only managed a visit to the farmhouse
Every couple of years, and I thought it so humorous
That when the time came to leave
She would always unaccountably disappear;
To be seen shortly afterwards, through the window
Or perhaps on the porch, looking moribund
As your car cleared the final sweep of the long driveway-
With perhaps a wave then, if you were lucky.

And then one day she died, and there were no goodbyes.
She died in her sleep, as all the wise of this world
Ought to be allowed to die; and with no goodbye,
No last wave, no tears. I began to understand then
That all those goodbyes, that she would never participate in
Were to be taken together, as a whole,
As a single, silent deference;
Or a quietly potent rebellion-
Against the final leave-taking,
That she knew would probably go unspoken,
And as it happened, so it did.

And now, I no longer say goodbye either-
I always leave the airport stone faced;
Afraid this might be the last goodbye
That I never knew about.