A Soft-edged Reed of Light
That was the house where you asked me to remain on the eve of my planned departure. Do you remember?
The house remembers it — the deal table with the late September sun stretched on its back.
As long as you like, you said, and the chairs, the clock, the diamond leaded lights in the pine-clad alcove of that 1960s breakfast-room bore witness.
I had only meant to stay for a week but you reached out a hand, the soft white cuff of your shirt open at the wrist, and out in the yard, the walls of the house considered themselves in the murk of the lily-pond, and it was done.
Done. Whatever gods had bent to us then to whisper, Here is your remedy — take it — here, your future, either they lied or we misheard.
How changed we are now, how superior after the end of it — the unborn children, the mornings that came with a soft-edged reed of light over and over, the empty rooms we woke to.
And yet if that same dark-haired boy were to lean towards me now, with one shy hand bathed in September sun, as if to say, All things are possible — then why not this?
I’d take it still, praying it might be so. Julia Copus
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