Her Mourning Kindness
her pain was unsettling. deep. in the time it took to
set the phone back in its cradle, her face contorted from its self
into a masque of old age. a little part of her certainty had died.
if the elder she both loved and feared could stray that far from sanity,
what hope was there for her, whose self-assurance lives in other’s
words? most in the ones unspoken; the ones she supplies on her own,
borrowing that elder’s voice.
I reached to comfort, but my arms enfolded tears and
empty longing. wherever she had gone, I couldn’t follow. I had to
wait until she found her way back to our world. if she ever did. mourning
takes us places we can’t always get home from.
left helplessly useless to her, I found my own assurance
keeling, foundered on this unexpected loss. it felt selfish to be
caring anything for myself. yet the situation reduced me with sensations
that had never stood between us.
knowing little else of loving, I always spring to offer
help with any trouble—even the most trivial things—and I could always
count on her to count on me. self-sufficient to most crises, it was
a gift she gave me.
now her anguish rendered me completely superfluous.
if I hadn’t had a moment’s grace, I would have let frustration’s anger
win; but the twist of her face and her ruptured sobs brought perspective.
this wasn’t about me. it wasn’t about us.
summoning a more patient courage, I took her clenching
hand and tried to soothe away its portion of her hurt. after a little,
she looked at instead of through me. the care-sculpted face she may
wear in forty years began to melt, back into its present self. her
eyes were focused in the room instead of far away, where they could
see but bring no ease. in another hour, I could hold her and she could
afford to share her pain. to comfort me with doing something more
for her than cry.
relieved, I offered everything I have. she took a little
and was kind enough to say that little was enough
© 2001 Peter Geoffrey Hynes
