On knowing when to go
By Ren Pike
A reflection after reading Walter Kempowski's All for Nothing
The last book I read sticks like floor jam.
I move around the spots. The ending. The middle.
The slow that became fast. The good times—never good
enough—suddenly gone. In an instant, things so bleak.
It's dry faces all around. More tears in the dreading.
I'm slicing fat onions. Preset oven warming.
Smokey ham chopped. Soon there will be
scalloped potatoes in this cast iron crock.
Butter tabs and fresh milk. Abundance. Aromas.
My mind steps back. Fitting foot into print. The way
the author visited, re-visited. The obscured road. Paths
in the snow. The microscope; seeking the unseen.
Doors—being locked, unlocked, left wide. People
always peering in, or out. The privacy so prized. Ice
on the pane. Drafts and white wool caps. The rhythm
of foods and feeding. The dwindling store room.
Every visitor a porter; rabbit arms and pocket eggs.
The way characters let go of their better selves
like handfuls of hair; surprised, not sweeping up.
The ditches lined with human furniture. The dropping
of treasures. The way things seem to end up
under cart wheels. Crushed in an instant.
I want to start anew. On the table, beyond my cold coffee
in that last gasp of January sunlight, crisp spines await.
Each a departure delayed. I'm not ready. My suitcase still
sits under the bed. Unpacked. Uncertain. What to bring?
Nearby, houses empty. I ask passersby, in my most
unconcerned tone, is it time to go? Is that drumfire
I hear? Should I be already on the road? Can anyone
tell me, when is too late?
Ren Pike grew up in Newfoundland. Through sheer luck, she was born into a family who understood the exceptional value of a library card. Her work has appeared in Train, IceFloe Press, NDQ and FEED. When she is not writing, she wrangles data for non-profit organizations in Calgary, Canada.