I did not want the kneeling
in that hospital room where the blinds stayed half-drawn
against a gray Vancouver morning. Breath rose slow at the sheets
like tidewater. Someone had placed orchids beside the bed
their purple mouths wet. Food trays rested untouched on the side table
plastic wrap fogged over bowls of fruit and small sandwiches.
Outside, the harbor moved under low cloud
freighters drifting like dark islands while gulls positioned
the wind. Here, they speak in the soft voices people use
around the dying. Someone mentioned light at the end
of the road. The way people mention mountains
when they cannot speak of distance. I remembered another winter
far back in the valley years. Grandfather had gone before dawn that morning, the kitchen still blue with coastal dark. Salmon
left from the night before and toast spread with berry jam
smelling faintly of cedar smoke. You ate only half
before rising, coat already on your shoulders
like weather coming in. After you left I moved into your chair
feeling your absence. Outside, the cedars held the fog low
in their branches. A ferry horn moved slowly across the water.
Neighbors arrived with foil trays and paper bags
roast chicken, honey ham, jars of pickled beans from gardens
gone to frost. Rain moved steadily
through the gutters. We bowed
our heads over the plates. Steam lifted
into the dim kitchen light.
And we prayed you would return safely,
the way children along the coast pray
when the boats
are late coming home.