The Garden State

This old house is dying
Like the grandmother I never had:
Content that I’ve turned out okay,
Her work is over
And she doesn’t mind the idea of finally drifting away,
Though not before I visit a few times
To show her how I’ve been since flying.
She’s a little different each time I come back:
Still there, but her eyes have dimmed a little.
Now, her hands that once rolled cookies with such confidence
Can barely support the plastic ward-issued knife;
Her voice that once carried the choir with her faith
Comes now with just sparse monosyllables;
Her ears that could pick me out of a screaming schoolyard
Can now hardly note my stuttering, tumbling words
From beside the starched, bleached pillow.
She’s slowly stopping,
Like an old steam engine that’s fought its way
Through the mountains to the sandy finish line of the Pacific,
Coming to rest and shutting down because there’s nowhere further to go
And because she’s earned the damn vacation.
She’s chugging her last,
And as much as it breaks my heart,
Seeing her fade,
It’s comforting to know that she’s done all she had to:
She taught my hands to give comfort;
She taught my voice to carry my heart;
She taught my ears to know love;
And just before her tongue stopped and her right lung gave out,
She taught my heart that
“The only way to know what to look for
Is to learn what’s missing.”
Now, she just lies there with a smile
On her old, worn face,
Right up until the white linens covering her breasts
Stop following the rise and fall of the ocean swells.

And as we pull the blinds down,
Gently flip the switch, close the car doors,
It’s comforting to know that the pain in my chest
And the sting in my eyes
Is just my home
Letting me know what I can now go out and look for.