always feel foolish saying words that aren’t my own. I sound like Clare now. I sound like that Mrs. Brewster who takes Clare to Friends’ Meeting with her on Sundays. Do I still remember that poem? Or have I lost it?
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:—
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
“What writest thou?”—The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered, “The names of those who love the Lord.”
“And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay, not so,”
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerily still; and said, “I pray thee then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men.”
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest.
Good. I haven’t lost it.
Close to the window, an owl whistled. All those nights when she had gotten up to nurse Clare, she had heard the owl. No, not this owl, but its great-great-great grandfather, maybe. At the foot of the pine tree, Clare, as a child, liked to gather the white bones of ferrets and mice, small as darning needles, which the owl had picked clean.
So many things dying in that tree, or being born, coming into the world, going out of it. Never forget. No. Twenty years, but never forget. He came too early. Six months. Didn’t even live long enough to be named. She’d heard him cry. Through her drugged sleep, she’d heard the nurse’s voice: “Shall I bathe him? He’d fit in a teacup.” And the doctor: “If I were at my old hospital in Philadelphia, I could save him.” And herself in the bathroom—would she ever forget?—pumping her milk into the sink. And later, her face pressed to the glass partition behind which the preemies slept, each in its own box, begging him to stay, crooning to him the song her mother sang to her, though he couldn’t hear her through the glass:
“Here comes the sandman,
Stealing away on the tips of his toes.”
She could never sing that song to Clare. Kept it locked up inside her.
“He scatters the sand
With his own little hand
In the eyes of the sleeping children.”
Who cares for him now? Will we meet in heaven? He would be twenty years old—going off to fight, maybe. Good to be spared that. Gone.
Gone?
Sometimes a door opens in her sleep and she sees him, three years old, in a little blue coat and leggings, standing close to her. They are on a platform, waiting, and the train stops. She gets on, the doors of the car close, the train starts up, she reaches for his hand —but where is he?
She gets off at the next stop, in tears.
“Don’t you cry,” says the ticket man. “Didn’t you know the next train will take you back where you came from?”
“A boy in a blue coat and leggings?” murmurs a man in line behind her. “Why, he’s all right. Why, he’s waiting for you.”
She catches the next train, and it goes in the right direction, but it does not stop at the station where a little boy in a blue coat and leggings is waiting for her.
“Don’t you cry,” says the ticket man. “Don’t you cry. Didn’t you know the next train will take you back where you came from?”
“Your little boy’s waitin’ for you,” says the lady in front of her. “I saw him. He’s not goin’ anywhere. He’ll be there.”
But the next train goes farther and farther away from the platform where a little boy in a blue coat is waiting for her, and she can’t find the train back, though now and then she meets someone who says, “A little boy in a blue coat and leggings? Yes, ma’am. I saw him. He’s all right. He’s waitin’ for his mama on the platform. Take the next train west and get off at the seventh stop.”
But
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:—
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
“What writest thou?”—The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered, “The names of those who love the Lord.”
“And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay, not so,”
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerily still; and said, “I pray thee then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men.”
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest.
Good. I haven’t lost it.
Close to the window, an owl whistled. All those nights when she had gotten up to nurse Clare, she had heard the owl. No, not this owl, but its great-great-great grandfather, maybe. At the foot of the pine tree, Clare, as a child, liked to gather the white bones of ferrets and mice, small as darning needles, which the owl had picked clean.
So many things dying in that tree, or being born, coming into the world, going out of it. Never forget. No. Twenty years, but never forget. He came too early. Six months. Didn’t even live long enough to be named. She’d heard him cry. Through her drugged sleep, she’d heard the nurse’s voice: “Shall I bathe him? He’d fit in a teacup.” And the doctor: “If I were at my old hospital in Philadelphia, I could save him.” And herself in the bathroom—would she ever forget?—pumping her milk into the sink. And later, her face pressed to the glass partition behind which the preemies slept, each in its own box, begging him to stay, crooning to him the song her mother sang to her, though he couldn’t hear her through the glass:
“Here comes the sandman,
Stealing away on the tips of his toes.”
She could never sing that song to Clare. Kept it locked up inside her.
“He scatters the sand
With his own little hand
In the eyes of the sleeping children.”
Who cares for him now? Will we meet in heaven? He would be twenty years old—going off to fight, maybe. Good to be spared that. Gone.
Gone?
Sometimes a door opens in her sleep and she sees him, three years old, in a little blue coat and leggings, standing close to her. They are on a platform, waiting, and the train stops. She gets on, the doors of the car close, the train starts up, she reaches for his hand —but where is he?
She gets off at the next stop, in tears.
“Don’t you cry,” says the ticket man. “Didn’t you know the next train will take you back where you came from?”
“A boy in a blue coat and leggings?” murmurs a man in line behind her. “Why, he’s all right. Why, he’s waiting for you.”
She catches the next train, and it goes in the right direction, but it does not stop at the station where a little boy in a blue coat and leggings is waiting for her.
“Don’t you cry,” says the ticket man. “Don’t you cry. Didn’t you know the next train will take you back where you came from?”
“Your little boy’s waitin’ for you,” says the lady in front of her. “I saw him. He’s not goin’ anywhere. He’ll be there.”
But the next train goes farther and farther away from the platform where a little boy in a blue coat is waiting for her, and she can’t find the train back, though now and then she meets someone who says, “A little boy in a blue coat and leggings? Yes, ma’am. I saw him. He’s all right. He’s waitin’ for his mama on the platform. Take the next train west and get off at the seventh stop.”
But
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