Weybridge, Vermont, December 2024
After the guests depart, I go through the house,
turning off lights—the mudroom, the entryway,
the floodlights that guided them out
to their cars and onto our country road. Midwinter,
and a light soft as moonglow emanates from the drifts
the town plow piled on our lawn
like the mounds of rubble we saw on the news
where once there were roads.
A path had been cleared for the throngs
of donkey carts, pickups, bicycles, trolleys loaded
with what could be salvaged,
people on foot departing the ruined village.
A child swinging a sand bucket walked alongside a woman
carrying a toddler, pushing a baby carriage
stacked with belongings, her back bowed
by a backpack, the key to her bombed house hanging
on a string from her neck like a locket.
The icicles fang the eaves of our roof, incisors of light,
until with a flick of the switch from indoors,
the outside world goes dark.
You’ve gone ahead to bed. I said I would follow,
instead I wander room to room,
dismayed to be spared in this ark of a house
afloat among the wreckage of a world at war.
I turn off the lights in the living room, the chairs still grouped
as we were, by the woodstove,
drinks in hands, deploring the devastations,
what we might do or have done—petitions, protests,
op-eds in the local paper, a yoga session for peace
concluding with meditation—all to no avail,
as we moved from our drinks to the meal on the table.
You tried to distract us from doom, inviting
each one to share some joy in spite
of the times, starting us off with your gratitude
at having us gathered together. One dittoed delight;
one added a clean bill, the cancer beaten back;
a third spoke of a silent retreat, the peace surpassing
her understanding; another a new grandchild
whose photo made the rounds.
I was last and passed, the food was getting cold,
the exercise, imposed upon gracious friends
by a well-meaning host, more fitting at a festive occasion
marking the start of a year or the end of a fast,
children asked what they are grateful for
and steered away from saying their Legos,
their Mermaids, their Bubble Wands or Nintendos.
I turn off the lamp on the sideboard, the track lights
in the kitchen, no longer needed now that the cleanup
is over, the dishwasher churning,
the leftovers put away, too much for the two of us
to finish ourselves.
In the televised war, the aid trucks lined up at the border,
unable to cross, awaiting agreements.
Of a sudden the barriers lifted,
the camera panned pandemonium, crowds surging
towards pallets of canned goods, bags of flour,
tanks of water, medicines, bandages,
trauma pouches for medics, dignity kits
for the women. Was there an ocean with sand dunes
for the child with the beach bucket, relief for the mother,
grieving the death of a husband or brother,
some brief joy for those who will not survive
today’s bombings, or tomorrow’s?
I turn off the pantry light on that sorrow.
Earlier, as we cleaned up we assessed the success
of the supper party, the gloom we could not lift
with feasting and fellowship, wondering
what good it does to keep going
over and over things we can do
nothing about?
You were standing by the sink, the light at an angle
casting your shadow on the wall,
a light I turn off now,
and head down the hall past the alcove with photos,
loved ones departed, parents, friends,
a container with the ashes of the sister
who could not bear to go on, walls lined
with books, bulwarks against the despair
that keeps me awake, roaming the house,
turning on lights, turning them off,
before making my way in the dark
to the spark of my joy
where you lie in our bed,
already sleeping.
