The Visit

By James T. Stemmle

PROMPT — What is Love?

So we sat there across from each other

brother and sister both of us old one of us

dying

encased in a body going south in Florida

concerned about quotidian animal things

poop, pee, food, mobility

arranging things in her personal space

with the help of a grabber stick and a foot

loop to pull feet up to the foot stool because

leg muscles are no longer equal to the task

just two human spirits looking across at each

other and fully present What brings you here?

You decided to visit me because I am dying

didn’t you? no time for pretense

actually I don’t know why I am here I imagine

Mom and Dad coming to visit you hovering

near the ceiling. Have you seen them?

well, maybe that’s why I am here I come in

loco parentis I come to say they probably are

hovering they who gave you unconditional

love and always wanted the best for you and

grieved in your suffering which is almost

over now and they still love you

and I do too though exactly why I am not

sure we weren’t close drifting apart, living

out our lives in remote cities still we are kin

I remember our childhood when we lived in

the same house little kids around the kitchen

table, good times at Christmas

I felt I had to come to make things right, it

seems important, here you are, about to fly,

and I come to say goodbye

I come to say someone in a remote city is

thinking of you as your days dwindle down

to a precious few

alas in our old age we loose our way, can’t

complete a thought, words elude us, one of

us more than the other, so we are only

partially present, still we give our all to the

task: we are as present and as pleasant as we can be

and something mystical happened: intense

wordless love

like that felt by a despairing WWII medic in an

uncanny story I read recently when his uncle

appeared at the foot of his bunk one especially

dark night wearing his WWI helmet and

reappeared decades later bringing comfort in

his last days

my sister and I joined spirits, merged briefly,

happiness descended, comfort flowed from

just being there, from having made the effort

Sleep

I keep thinking about humans sleeping

in ancient times like our own somehow

it’s touching endearing to imagine them,

earthly animals, all vulnerable, curled

up in their caves or on their straw

mattresses absolutely needing sleep

in its regular rhythm.

It says something sublime about them

As if they were making regular visits

to the source, resting in god’s hands

Even lovers have to say to each other

I have to go away for a while

We cannot hold ourselves at attention

forever, we have to slip away

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James T. Stemmle is an old man, currently living retirement in Riderwood, Maryland, a hundred acre senior village, with his wife of 58 years. He writes poetry during morning meditations on a bench by a pond with time off to greet passers-by with a cheerful good morning. He had a Federal Government career mostly with the EPA, earned a doctorate from Catholic U in Chemistry, and was born in Louisville, KY. He is eager to share his poetry. Already he has published 45 poems in such literary magazines as: The Octillo Review, Evening Street Review, The Raven’s Perch, Deep South Magazine, Hektoen International: A Journal of Medical Humanities, Literary Veganism: An Online Journal, Cheofpleirn Press, Seattle Star, Poetry Superhighway, Open Arts Forum, Journal of Expressive Writing, The Light Ekphrastic, Midway Journal, Literary Heist, Open Door Poetry Magazine, The Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Poetry Pacific, The Indian Review, The Oakwood Literary Journal, Boshemia, ArLiJo, Réapparition Journal, The Front Range Review, and Narrative Northeast.