Staying Power #168: "I Can't Be the One"

An original poem-in-progress

Son Nathan recently came home from college on spring break—his last visit here until mid-August. Unfortunately, when he arrived, I was sick with COVID.

I was so frustrated to be so unwell! From my bed, I could smell Nathan’s delicious chicken tikka masala simmering on the stove; I could enjoy him practicing the cello; I could hear the murmur of his conversations with his dad; I could feel the strutting of his feet up and down the floor of the hallway outside my door while he was surfing his phone . . .

He made me chicken soup. He whipped up a batch of my favorite ice cream to celebrate my birthday. He often lay down beside me, the two of us back-to-back, for a muffled talk through our face masks. Somehow, he always made me laugh.

Then, on March 31, his break was over, and he was gone. Back to Minnesota.

A few days after Nathan had returned to campus, I found the energy to start this poem. Since then, I’ve been dinking around on it as if it were a piano keyboard.

My mind is still so foggy that I can’t be sure the poem makes sense. But, Nathan, when you read it, I know you’ll know what it’s trying to say.

I CAN'T BE THE ONE

to welcome you home, but when you arrive 
tonight, the faithful trees keeping watch 
in the yard curl their toes in pleasure, and all 
the doors of the house throw their arms wide
to receive you, and all the curtains draw apart 
to lighten the dark as you enter, and all 
the chairs scrape back from the kitchen table, 
bidding you to sit, and the stew ladles itself 
into a bowl beside the candle that lit its own wick
for joy, and the crusty loaf breaks itself open, 
to rest upon the wooden board for a dab  
of butter, of jam, of honey, any sweetness you 
might desire, and each empty bed turns down
its sheets and plumps up its pillows, hoping
to hold you in your sleep—while in one lonely
corner, hugging the wall, the patient piano 
waits her turn, soft ache in her taut strings, 
ready to play every loving song she’s learned
between the last time you left and this return.


Phyllis Cole-Dai
For son Nathan
April 2024

The Gentle Nudge

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