Every so often,
one of them leaves for the hospital.
Maybe an ambulance rushes up
and the uniformed guardians of life
go mechanically about the business;
an old man’s face is taught,
and a daughter can be heard
weeping over the phone.
Sometimes, instead, it is quiet voices
at 2:34 AM stepping softly
toward the car. Once in a while,
a doctor says, “It’s a good idea,”
and off they go.
It’s a strange ritual of… again;
“The Golden Years!” my dad sneers.
And I wonder: Could it be slower?
Could you quiet the rush?
After all, no one really knows
if you will come back this time.
I wonder if they, the old people,
ever think of this.
I wonder if, under their breath
and all the hurry,
a thing more calm waits, holds space,
stays present to the now.
And I wonder if, in that space,
they realize they might not be back,
and if they ever pause,
turn to that long home,
and say goodbye.
-Anthony Signorelli
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