Stacy Torian

A version of this poem first appeared in The Weekly Wafer section of  the “Stacy Torian, Librarian-to-be” website on March 19, 2017. 

The Call

The call came this morning.

“It got bad near the end, really bad. He’s in a better place now.”

I nod my head. No one can see me, but I nod anyway. It feels like the right thing to do.

I hang up the phone. I marvel at the power of its silly-sounding ring, that ring that can put an end to so many things, finished or not.

I look out the window. A white-breasted nuthatch is resting on its branches, breathing and unafraid. He has a home and a heart. He has everything he needs.

And so do I. What have I lost? My walk, my eyes, my breath – they’re all here.

This whole place smells like death. I want to leave, go roll in grass,
kick rocks down a dirt road, do something.

I walk to the door and stop in front of it.

I know what it is to open a door.

I know how to do it.

It’s not hard. Just – impossible.

Nothing will ever be the same again.