Funny how the smallest gestures can say so much
There’s you, sweeping the dust from an immaculate floor
With the soles of your sandaled feet. And there’s me,
Leaning back against the washer-dryer with my fingers
Pressed against its enameled sides, as if ten angry digits are the only things
Keeping it from crashing through the floor

Well, what did that author say? Words are wind
And sometimes it gets too cold to let in another breeze
That would have the effect of icing over an already frozen pond.

In our silence perhaps we are reliving history
Knowing well how history is in the eyes of the beholder
The grievances you thought I owned
And those I know I committed are as vastly distanced from each other
As the Poles. And it doesn’t matter anyway: our rationalizations
Are only cord wood added to the fires over which we will one day
Warm our icebound hearts and frozen limbs long after nobody cares.

Still, I am no automaton; the shiver of devastation I see on
Your face moves me in a way that angry cannonades of recriminations
Never did. And in your eyes I see the reflection of understanding
For my own grief. You can acknowledge my pain without
Ever accepting the premise for its being there. So be it. If we leave with a
Little bit of love between us, perhaps that will suffice in the end.

It’s the parting now that is so difficult; the tiny second gesture;
Movement from the angry whirlpool we must effect to begin
The process of moving on. I hope you do not cry. Tears spilling down your
Cheeks have always been my downfall; tears splashing down mine
Would only surprise you into asking me if I want to talk.

And that’s your problem: you have always tried to save me,
Even when I was beyond salvage. Part of me wants to leave just
To find out how much of a wretch I really am. The other part wants to go
So you don’t jump to the conclusion about how much that really is.

It is too noisy where we are now, even without the words
I know there is angel inside of me;
I need some time and distance to go and find him.
It doesn’t matter what it says on that paper in your hand.
That’s the real reason we’re standing here now,
Saying nothing, yet speaking novels; waiting only for one of
Us to make that final gracious gesture
To say goodbye and go.

03/21/2013

Author's Note: not my story, but someone close...

Posted on 03/21/2013
Copyright © 2025 Ken Harnisch