Aubade Poem by Colm Keenan

The wheels of the trolley squeak.
Her large green suitcase is lopsided,
And those on top are stuck with the trend.

She keeps her face turned towards sunrise
as we try to outdistance the disease
terminal by terminal,
but the trembling shoulders and sniffling give her away.

There's no conversation in the coffee shop,
just her occasional glance of pleading eyes
for me to say the words I never will.
Two curly-haired toddlers come to our table,
airport rent-a-kids playing with Smurf key rings
a game that is spontaneous,
a game without the pomp of rules,
smiling up at us as fingers fidget,
approval-seeking from familiar strangers,
a gesture born to be unborn,
their parents a few places back bleary-eyed, munching on bagels.
I guess sleepless nights and nappies take their toll,
thereafter, the never-ending whys,
a swim against the current and the school,
indigestion of cognitive dissonance,
loaves and fishes alongside arithmetic.
Even angels lose their charm.

Before the check-in desk I interrogate her competence:
"Now ye have your passport?
And your tickets?
Ye didn't forget anything, did ye? "
But I shut up when I realize it's more the voice of a mother,
any mother,
and I see her crying once again.

How quickly hot tears lose their heat!
Perhaps gravity increases the surface area,
coupled with skin that tries to reabsorb what's being lost.
And she, taking off her jacket, unbuckling her belt,
disappeared behind a stack of dull trays
because I didn't want to,
because I couldn't,
use that negative imperative:

Don't go, Lucia!
Hey....Don't go.