Awhile
She said she would be gone a little while.
Hours later white-coated figures
wheeled her gurney in. She did not come out.
Though I imagine her coming out
being pushed in a wheelchair
flowers in her lap smiling weakly,
as I held a car door upon.
She travelled further than a little while,
the grocery store raced down a long road,
she chased it for miles and miles
then what with the headlong hours
tumbling over berms and ditches
like flung away road kills
I had to at last consider the term ‘a while,’
and what it meant to her.
Did she ever feel that the ER staff
had been on high alert since she was born,
or perceive the gravity of ‘a while’
as she sat laughing each morning
with her friends in the coffee shop,
or when her last lover quit
being her lasting love?
She’s gone now of course,
but for me that ‘awhile’ seems to grow less
every year I keep on living,
holding her face inside my eyes
like a child yet to be delivered.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2021
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