Bedtime

I have turned out the light and punched up the pillow and stretched my toes to the end of the bed looking for sleep In the darkened room the stripes of light through the blinds tell me my Indian neighbors are still awake The Nani is washing up in the kitchen The sink is under the window where she can look out at her grandchildren in the afternoon at the sky at night She eschews the yellow gloves her daughter in law hangs by the sink preferring the caress of the hot soapy water on her swollen knuckles She dries the dishes slowly studying the remembered pattern stacking them on the counter forgetting where she is then remembering (The light goes out) she holds her breath for a moment and then sighing loudly enough to alert her little white dog who waits on the landing He lifts his curly head and thumps his tail against the stair She clings tiredly to the handrail lingering over its silken surface worn smooth by the generations upstairs her grandchildren are asleep in separate rooms She sings a song from childhood softly to herself punctuated by whimpers from the waiting dog and wonders where her life went She is so far from the two rooms where she was born I see her smooth face in the morning leading her grandchildren to the big yellow bus nodding to the Indian driver And in the afternoon as she awaits their return During the day when they are all away And she has turned off the vacuum cleaner her face changes in the empty house encompassed by the music of her girlhood Once I saw her through the window dancing I lingered there enchanted while she moved across the room in an easy languid pattern stepping and turning until I thought she saw me watching Now it is only the lonesome moon behind the blinds guarding the night almost complete Still lacking a little bit at the top I pray for spring The sun following me home like a lover warming my back Montclair, NJ, 2006