Threshold of Perseverance

Rearranging furniture, hanging pictures, and art the way I did after Donnie‘s paralyzing accident. After his death. I persevere. 

I saw him yesterday.  Only he was black. He was in his chair at the bus stop. 

He was leaning on one elbow to the side, the way Donnie did. 

He had a grocery bag looped across the back of his chair, the way Donnie did. 

He was sitting on a pillow to make it more comfortable, the way Donnie did.

I parked my car, took $20 out of my purse and walked toward him. 

I stood by his side to say hello and I couldn’t speak. 

My voice quivered and cracked. I wanted to let him know I cared. 

I had the 20 wadded up in my hand. I could barely get the words out. 

My son, I said, slowly, was in a chair for 20 years. 

The man nodded with an understanding smile. 

Still, my voice cracked more than usual. 

I wanted to say more but I knew my body would not allow it. 

I want to give you a gift,  I said, and handed him the 20. 

At first he resisted with the standard, Oh, you don’t need to do that, 

as I reached for his hand. I was at the threshold.

He took the 20. His voice cracked and smiled. He had beautiful teeth. 

Thank you. He  could barely speak. No  one has ever done this. 

You deserve it. 

My threshold dispersing, have a great holiday, I said. 

I  would have lingered if my body would have allowed it. 

It did not. I walked into the store to do my shopping. 

I see Donnie everywhere. I saw him at Anna's memorial. 

When I see him, there is a nauseous feeling that settles in my gut. 

The gut. That place near my uterus where he once grew remains tender. 

This threshold, this point of re-entry reveals itself so slow.