It's Quiet

It's quiet.

No, not exactly.

There's sound,

faint— 

a distant chorus

vibrating from the trees

outside my window

where the katydid's quaver:

katy katy did,

katy katy didn't.

katy katy did,

katy katy didn't.

It's an endless cry

that I easily

close my eyes to,

nothing like the cry

of a newborn,

the newborn sleeping,

finally,

in the bassinet

next to me.

The thought

of his cry

jolts me

and I sit up.

Is he breathing?

I stare at him:

his chest,

his ribs,

waiting,

watching,

counting

my own heartbeats until

wait— 

I shuffle out of bed

and lean over his

fragile body,

listening,

waiting,

counting

my own heartbeats until— 

there it is.

A breath.

Another.

He's fine, Mommy,

I tell myself

for the hundredth time.

He's fine.

Rest.

I crawl back

into my bed,

sink back

into my pillows,

close back

my leaden eyelids…

katy katy did,

katy katy didn't.

katy katy did,

katy katy didn't.

The muted vibration

of my phone

cuts through the chorus

and my eyes peel open.

I reach for it,

laying on the bed beside me—

just in case— 

and look at the screen.

It's him.

I cup my hand

around my mouth,

"Everything all right?"

"Hi, yeah," he says,

"I know it's late but...

your dad…"

I sit up.

"Is… Is he not

answering the door,

again?"

Quiet.

No, not exactly.

I hear his breathing

through the phone.

"I hate to ask," he says,

"since it's so late,

but can you come sign

for the medicine again?

I can't just leave morphine

at the door."

A stir

from the bassinet

steals my attention.

I wait,

watch,

count

my own heartbeats until— 

he's still breathing.

I shake my head.

"No, of course not.

That's fine!

I'll be there in

five minutes."

He sighs,

"Thank you…"

My husband stirs,

lifts an eyelid

and I motion

to the phone.

He already knows.

I'm out of bed

and dressed

within seconds,

tiptoeing toward the

bedroom door but

wait— 

I hurry to the bassinet:

watch,

listen,

count

my own heartbeats until— 

Mommy.

He's fine.

Go.

I turn,

walking on the

balls of my feet

out the door

and into the humid night.

katy katy did,

katy katy didn't.

katy katy did,

katy katy didn't.

Their melody

is louder now.

It's strange

how they permeate

the air, envelope me

in their chirps.

It's almost as if

I can feel it,

their song

oscillating

through my bones.

Though now,

obscured in the sticky darkness,

their unabating cry

doesn't sound much

like a lullaby

anymore.

It sounds

like a warning.

I pause,

listen,

wait,

count

my own heartbeats until— 

It's fine.

Go.

Hurry.

I pull into the drive,

cutting the headlights,

and creep

to my father's house, careful

not to wake

his curious neighbors.

Standing

on the porch

is a man I've met

many times before,

briefly, but numerous—

always in this same spot

but never quite this late.

He looks sleepy.

So do I.

"Thank you for coming out."

His voice is raspy.

"I know it's late,

but I'm running behind

and your dad's prescription

was last on my list."

He lowers a clipboard;

hands over a pen.

I scribble my dad's name.

"I understand," I breathe.

"I'm just sorry

you had to wait

for me."

He tucks the papers

under his arm

and gives me

a package.

"I think it's brave

what you're doing

for him.

You're so young."

He stills.

I sigh.

"He is, too..."

He opens his mouth

and I watch his eyes

search for words— 

something,

anything,

but nothing comes out.

He shuffles his feet;

pats my shoulder;

retreats to his truck.

I watch him pull away,

reverse-drive

down the road,

turn around,

leave.

Quiet.

No, not exactly.

A dog barks

from a distant yard.

I comb through my keys

until I find the white one

with the faded pink letters

that read,

"home".

I rub my thumb across them,

as if the touch

will bring back

their vitality,

as if this morphine

will bring back

my father's

vitality…

I open the door

to darkness.

It's unusual

for him

to have all the lights

turned off.

"Dad?"

My voice

barely escapes

my throat.

I wait,

listen,

count

my own heartbeats until—

nothing.

I step inside,

close the door,

glide to the kitchen

and flick on the light

above the oven.

Quiet.

No, not exactly.

I hear the fan

whirling

in his bedroom.

I breathe, realizing

I hadn't done that

since coming inside.

"Dad?"

I don't know why

I called his name— 

I'm sure he's sleeping— 

but something…

something

isn't quite right

here.

I leave my keys

on the table

and step

toward his bedroom.

I pause,

listen,

breathe,

count

my own heartbeats until— 

I open the door.

Moonlight flickers across the floor,

it's white dress mottled

with the inky stripes

from the blinds

in the window.

I step inside;

the door bumps lightly

against the wall,

a peeve of my father's,

but suddenly

I don't care about that.

I see him on the bed,

lying on his back,

his frail arms

criss-crossed against his

bone-thin chest.

His face— 

still,

waxen.

I can't move.

I'm not even sure

when I took my last breath,

but I struggle to find one

now.

My lips are dry,

sticky.

I lick them,

ungluing my mouth

so that I can choke out— 

what, exactly?

"Dad?"

The name catches

in the persistent hum

of his little bedside fan,

and I don't know

if I'm upset

that I have to say

his name

again,

or if it's because I know

he won't hear me.

I step closer.

Just one.

"Dad!"

I watch,

wait,

listen

count

my own damn heartbeats until— 

I leap to his bed,

my palm pressing against

his forehead,

his cheeks,

his cold

cold

cold

lips— 

"Dad!

Wake up!

Please,

don't go yet!"

I shake him.

And I shake him.

And he doesn't move

and I know

I know

I know

he's not going to but

"I'm not ready

to let you go

just yet!"

My stomach

plummets.

My ears

burn.

My mind

is screaming

screaming

screaming— 

Is he breathing?

Stop.

Listen.

Wait.

Count

my own heartbeats until— 

It's quiet.