I am looking for a past
I can rely on
in order to look to death
with equanimity.
What was given me:
my mother-s largeness
to protect me,
my father-s regularity
in coming home from work
at night, his opening the door
silently and smiling,
pleased to be back
and the lights on
in all the rooms
through which I could run
freely or sit at ease
at table and do my homework
undisturbed: love arranged
as order directed at the next day.
Going to bed was a journey.