Turn

The doors are shut, he said.
And she heard it, equipped from habit;
Adjusting the white pillow beneath her head,
And lying next to him in the dark, she thought
She had known.
This is not how I was, how I want to be, he said.
She heard it, and turned her face towards him,
Towards his favourite window,
The one without a curtain,
And saw the blue night and thought
It was almost spring.
Getting old, even boring, I guess,
With little money and leaden claims, he said.
She recalled his yesterday’s face, saw how
The icy weight had caused his jowls to sag
And put out the boyish flame in his clear eyes.
She had seen defeat, she thought, impermanent,
But defeat it was, and felt too what he said he felt
Somewhere in the middle of his chest.
She held his fingers, warm and limp,
And for a while he spoke no more.
Since lies had never been for him, she said
What she knew must be said.
It wasn’t much but sharply formed,
From want of consolation.
Later it rained.
When in the morning she awoke,
She suddenly could not remember
When she had drifted off to sleep,
And wondered how long he had gone on
Staring at the invisible ceiling.
He had slept too, he said
But his face said nothing more.
The gray and soggy day had crept under his skin.
She grew somewhat afraid,
For she had thought, from habit,
The shadow would pass with the night
Like so many others.
The day was begun, as it had to be.
She paced about her little room,
Book in hand, biting her lower lip,
Worrying her head about him, wondering
How he’d manage to write the long edit
Which she knew he must.
The late-afternoon call surprised her,
For he said he was feeling way better.
Swiftly and gladly, she read his tone,
As she could like the back of her hand,
And said she’d love it, when he asked
If they should go out in the evening.
She arrived early, and while she waited
At their usual table for two,
She noticed a few new faces
Among the youngish waiters.
She waited till he came, and when he did,
She read in his quick steps the happy news.
That it was over, she was convinced.
Then he told her about the email,
Told her that Olaf was dead,
“Shot himself at the airport,”
And added, with laughing, glistening eyes,
That it could hardly be true.
Only the other day at the Zürich airport
He had Olaf’s hands in his,
As they said goodbye and promised to meet again.
That evening the singers did not turn up
And the DJ chose to play odd songs.
Songs nearly forgotten,
Songs they had heard when they were much younger,
And did not exist for each other,
Songs that meant this or that,
Bound in the memory of each
With a thousand secret things
Some of which they spoke of,
Sitting until late in the café.
2004