To Hold You
Towards the end,
after I had hugged you
and felt the tumors
on your back and how
thin you had become,
I began to dream of you
at night. You were smaller
than I ever remembered
you being, not so tall and
younger. Each night
thereafter, you diminished
in size and stature
and age. I saw you
in your soldier’s
uniform, gawky,
a baby-face still;
as a thin, wiry adolescent;
as a slender, intense
eleven-year-old;
as a curly haired
five-year-old.
I became alarmed.
When would it stop?
You might vanish—
I refused to give you
back to air. I needed
to take action, to hold
onto you—and picked
you up into my arms.
Too easily—
you were so light!
I began to carry you
everywhere in my dream,
while walking through
the house or the yard,
or standing in a library
or supermarket, I held
you close. Your bones
were as light as a bird’s.
I took care not
to break you. Your skin
grew as thin as a
slip of onion peel
and as transparent
as the blue-veined
cheek of a baby.
I clung to you, afraid
you might vanish.
The lighter you became,
the tighter my hold,
so you wouldn’t float
away like a balloon
into the sky.
You were my baby,
my child, my father.
I would no more
let you go than I
would let a helpless
infant fall into
nothingness.
My arms anchored
you to this earth,
to this living—
where I wanted
you to stay forever.
Growing ever smaller,
you became the size
of a fragile newborn,
and then a gauzy wraith
in my arms, without
substance or shape.
I couldn’t contain
emptiness in my arms.
I dropped my arms
and you were gone.