I Can't Hear This Whistle
by Joel Gottlieb (January 24, 2005)
In a chair he sits, asleep, much like the others,
in a while Suzanne will go get a napkin and clean him up.
"He's so proud of you - he was happy yesterday, after your visit"
before she got here and chased us all away.
My heart sinks, God, what did we do wrong?
Why didn't we stop this?
Do you have any idea who this man is, what he's done?
How could this have happened so fast?
The forty-nine-year-old patient, however, wouldn't understand the question.
She's too busy trying to make me believe she's a member of the staff
while they are trying to keep her from their own space.
Neither does that question allow for the four years
we spent trying to communicate with our own Torvill and Dean
as they held tighter and tighter, spinning faster and faster,
chasing each other in loops outside the house screaming.
We did our best. At least I tell myself that.
The problem that I have no answer for
is that I should be here each day, to lift his spoon, wipe his mouth
and share the remaining time we've got.
But 500 miles are between us, and even if there were a whistle blowing
She would make sure that I could not hear it.
God, surely it is not too much for you
To help us find a quiet, humble way to accept
what we feel should not have had to have been accepted.
joel.gottlieb@gmail.com
