Survivors
He has stopped trying
to grasp her remoteness
that he mistakes for calm,
this cooling that accompanies
the wintering of her grief.
Since their daughter’s explosive
departure, its echo
like a slammed door,
she has pulled in, and in,
away from the pain,
away from him.
What he cannot know is how
she slips inside the sleeve
of her music, the lyrics
of angels
  touch
return,
draws down into the bubble
of her hope.
Alone in her car,
the music builds a room
around her, around the room
a house through which
she strolls.
It is in the nursery
that she feels the peace,
rocks her child, rocks herself,
restores the bond.
Too soon, the car turns itself
into her drive, slides
into the vault of garage.
Her hand finds the latch,
pulls her out. She takes the steps
like a condemned man.
The forced hello fades,
yields to the distance.
She glances up at him,
sees the eyes,
the terrible mirrors,
and turns again to stone.
by Robert Neimeyer, Ph.D.
