If I go out with day breaking through blinds
or in the dark of night, with perhaps
some candle light flickering as puppeteer,
will I know the room that hosts my last hours —
Will it be a familiar room dressed by
loving hands, mine or others, to remind me
that my feet knew where to step to avoid,
or to make sing, the creak near the door —
That my hands placed this and that
there and there — That my voice called
from the window when the cat was too near
a sparrow — That my body was later warmed
by the nearness of the cat, and then later
heated by the embrace of my man —
That my mind was calmed while reading
by the fire after unsettling moments spent
worrying that I may not in the end know a room.
Written for The Mag: Mag 132 that inspired with the above photo prompt
(Big Room, 1948, by Andrew Wyeth).
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