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