Gently Down the Dream

~for Robert H.

That morning I found myself

in my furniture’s way.

A fear of constellation

had gotten the better

of me, that and the call

from the social worker

telling me I’d better

come soon, so I set out

to make an otherwise

ordinary day 

my pilgrimage

to you.

That’s why I strapped 

an unfinished poem

to my chest

and headed north,

my heart veiled by

a preparatory web

of preyed upon words

no sheet of paper

was ready to hold.

Now that the hospice

allowed visitors 

I boarded the number 11

up to the rehab

only to find it

diminished in sheer style

by the abrupt magnificence

of a cathedral

ark-like

opposite it;

something breath-taking 

on an otherwise

humdrum avenue.

The hour threatened rain

and I felt content

to be umbrella-less.

I gladly welcomed

a torrent of tears

to sink into my 

weathered skin.

Inside the calm-colored walls

of Amsterdam House,

by the elevators

there was a picture

of a rowboat

abandoned on a shore,

it’s oars propped

sideways like

two flightless, if

beleaguered wings.

The doors slid 

unceremoniously open

and I entered

what felt like

a bright box

for arrousing

any and all visitor’s

trepidation. 

I pushed 7 

surprised to be

the sole occupant.

Symmetry shut

it’s doors

with an

indifferent sigh

causing my heart

to tremble 

inside my life vest.

I imagined myself

 already

on a ship

at the bottom

of the ocean

even while surfacing

to a faith-based promise 

of safety

in the sky.

Instead

the elevator opened

on the 7th floor

to a vacant,

rather pedestrian

hospital wing.

A delicate Asian woman 

was hovering 

over a pushcart stocked

with sterile items.

“Which way is room 112?”

I asked trying

to appear harmless

even as the poem 

ticked like a bomb

inside my chest.

She signaled me

to the last door

at the end of the hall

on the right

and I continued

forward as if

walking the plank

dreading

the inevitability

of my own splash.

Please know me

I thought to

myself

as I entered

the room

at the end

of another

man’s life.

You lay flat

but perpendicular

like a holy mural,

horizontal

and vertical

all at once.

Your body

a slip of a thing, 

the sole focus of

the vacant room,

composed as if

to prove 

every man

was destined

to die alone.

This tableau

is still

unforgettable

as it felt

infused with

the gentle peace

of dim light

intruding

from the window;

a Hopper

crossed with

a Magritte.

The room spoke

the language

of stillness,

 broken only by

the gentle 

determination

of your

tenacious

inner bellows,

as if life

were all

your body 

knew how

to do.

Your breathing

washing away 

it’s prints as

on a distant beach,

each exhalation

leaving no 

trace of

all your dreaming.

Standing at the foot

of your bed

I was awed

by the tenacity of

what appeared

a corpse

breathing

through

the shape of

a scream.

The white sheet

which hid your

wasted limbs

like birch branches

riddled with scars

for eyes.

You who had attended 

Yale Drama School.

You who had garnered raves

for your performances in The Times.

You who could be found

on a rowing machine

down at the Health Club

every morning at 9:00.

You who’s catheter put an end

to your swimming but

who’d show up

just to watch others 

enjoying the water.

You who had said

again and again

“I don’t belong in this world”.

You who spent entire days

alone in your well kemp studio,

who loved nothing more

than to be visited

by absolutely anyone.

You who leaned into a walker

like nobodies business.

What was this final stasis

meant to impart?

God, I thank you

for letting it be me

to sit at the foot

of your bed

even if

I drown in 

a sea of tears,

my body

an unlikely

but willing

 vessel

to hold

us both.

This is why 

I am here.

To assure you

your dream of life

was real

and to

insist that

the last words 

you hear

will be 

“I love you”.

Peter Valentyne

June 29th, 2020