The Leaving II
My son stands in the hallway
my son knows what to say:
Is there anything else you’d like me to do mom? //
No, you’ve done a lot thank you, I say.
My son stands in the hallway
his bronzy eyes sweep the floor
My son knows what to say:
I’m going out for a little while, okay? //
Maybe if you return before dark,
we can work on more leaves, I say. //
He nods – Maybe.
My son stands in the hallway
stretching his arms long for a hug
My son knows what to say:
I love you mom //
I love you too, I say.
My son stands in the hallway
his bronzy eyes follow me to the kitchen
What shall we do about supper? I say //
I don’t know, I’ll think of something, okay? he says //
Sounds good, I say.
My son knows what to say:
I’m going now, okay?
His bronzy eyes shift sideways
My son stands in the hallway
I say, Have a good day //
He says: [ ]
You too // // // // //
bye // // // // // // //
now ⊕
About this poem
On the morning of October 31, 2020, my 27-year-old son, Davin, helped me prepare the house for visiting family by moving furnishings, placing things up high on closet shelves, and moving storage tubs. At 12:00 P.M., we stood in the front hall of our Vermont home and had this casual exchange, not uncommon for a Saturday. At 1:15 P.M. my sister messaged me that she was not going to arrive until the next day. At 1:31 P.M., I sent Davin a text message, “Your aunt won’t be here tonight,” so he wouldn’t have to plan a big meal. He didn’t respond, but I was unphased, thinking he was across town with his uncle watching a football game or working on a house project, as was a typical weekend for him. After a dusk hike with the dog, I looked at the clock and sent Davin a text message at 7:56 P.M., “Where are you????” Following an hour of phone calls to him, my other son, his uncle, and the hospital, a police officer arrived at my door to find a woman heaving in anxious fits. We searched his living spaces for hints, notes, a missing travel bag. We checked the phone plan log and saw his last call was at 10:46 am, to a local Inn. At 9:30 P.M. the officer says, nonchalant, “HE’S NOT LIVING.”
My beautiful boy ended his life. Losing his father on 9/11, hiding a dark childhood secret, and living with depression for several years, the quarantines and shut-downs punctuated his feelings of hopelessness. He wrote:
“I’ve felt worried about our world in general, and it’s not getting better.”
© Deborah Garcia 2022, All rights reserved
