Hilary Sallick

                           Because of my heavy suitcase 

                           and my tote bag loaded 

                           with poetry   we decide 

                           as we walk through the dark-red door

                           of her apartment

                           to take the elevator down;

                           wafts of feeling    like air

                           through a window    

                           surging through me

                           as my daughter closes her door 

                           behind us   locks secure 

                           her world    its views that look

                           without and within   meaning

                           a few bright windows   that orange wall

                           beneath a stripe of sky

                           and those paintings she’s made 

                           and is making    Too feminine 

                           she worries    because of palette 

                           and curve that draw the eye

                           showing how things

                           fold into themselves    making

                           new pathways   in secret 

                           there in the studio   where nothing 

                           is ever    exactly as dreamed

                           yet continues

 

                           so a dream too is behind the door

                           now the dream I imagine 

                           and carry in memory   as we push 

                           the button for the elevator

                           wait for the sound of its rising 

                           or descending    as every day    

                           through decades    bearing 

                           families with children in strollers    

                           tenants with laundry   with groceries

                           with musical instruments  furniture

                           languages;   clanking softly it nears

                           we hear its door shuffle open  

                           pull the landing door to enter

                           and there’s a man before us

                           bent motionless   over his walker    

                           and for the briefest 

                           moment his implacable

                           eye meets ours    until he inches back 

                           politely    we slip past him   

                           into the elevator’s box

                           feel the downward motion    the machine’s 

                           joints creaking   four floors

                           to the bottom    

 

                           where the landing door 

                           won’t budge

                           my daughter pushes hard

                           but we’re enclosed a long instant 

                           then rising again

                           to the second floor where

                           the doors open freely  

                           so down we go once more

                           oh quiet man  

                           oh gentle lovely daughter

                           oh self of each of us   contained 

                           within silence   curtained

                           by courtesy;  

                           no luck    we go back up

                           we’ll have to take the stairs

 

                           do you need help   she asks him

                           as we emerge to the second floor

                           almost a murmur her tone   and

                           at his barely vocalized

                           assent   she lifts the walker   

                           carries it lightly down

                           the fifteen steps

                           then returns and offers her arm; 

                           they’re not quite strangers   

                           they’ve nodded in passing before

                           now they’re descending 

                           each worn tiled stair

                           in slowest motion   I follow   

                           the pair of them   Take 

                           your time    she says in a low

                           voice   when he needs

                           to rest    and eventually 

                           here we are

                           on the first floor

 

                           we part from him   step out

                           to cool spring   the few small trees

                           beginning to leaf   a softness

                           of color against the brick

                           and concrete

                           and how will I do us justice

                           in memory   in poetry;

                           it’s late    much later

                           than I’d meant to leave

                           I’ve seen him waiting before   she tells me 

                           someone is coming 

                           and we walk up the hill together

                           she’s giving me directions

                           for the subway   we’re

                           hurrying  hurrying  though my train   

                           will turn out to be delayed