We Must Awake: a Poem

It’s early morning, and I write in a hospital waiting room while my husband enters surgery. We’re next door to the emergency room where my daughter was pronounced dead two years ago, so I write.

We must awake

for John and Corrie

In the morning, we must awake, and 

drive next door to where our daughter

lay. 

I wake easy in the morning hours

after nightmares trespass in the 

night, and my heart races after

I observe her face. I see myself

in such dreams crying and 

calling for our little girl the 

way some authors write of birds

singing for another they never

see flying about in a different tree.

Longing is just a word, but it fails

to express what I wish; what I 

want–our little girl. But as I teach

students year after year, life isn’t fair

no matter what we want, love or 

fear.  It’s like a night full of fireflies.

See how they light up the sky, and

we laugh as we watch. Then we 

catch them, and put them in jars.

Yet they need open flight; not a

lid closed so tight.

In the morning we must awake, and 

prepare for the drive where surgeons

will remove the last of your tumor.

I wake easy in the morning hours 

after the nightmares alarm me, and 

I let the dogs out to run.  Rosie, the

smaller one, was a runt when she 

was born. I recall our little girl 

walking with the puppy in her 

arms before I’d paid. 

Make sure they run, and that 

they’re fed. I ask you, “Did it rain

last night? Did it rain enough?” 

I wonder if the plants got 

enough water as the heat of 

early summer will increase.

I can’t stand myself if our pets

or plants receive too little care. 

The nights remind me too well,

as we get closer to the morning

when we must awake, and arrive

next door to the place where our

daughter lay, how I failed to get

her to the doctor in time when

her stomach swelled. 

In the morning, you drive, and I sit quiet

on the passenger side breathing deep

to prepare myself for the moment

when I see the sign …

Children’s Emergency Room

John Lennon’s Imagine comes on the radio,

and I turn it off because there is nothing

more I want to imagine than a world

where we’re together with our little girl. 

You say to me, “We don’t need the music.

Your voice is the most beautiful music

to me.” Though people may wonder

why I’d married a man thirty-two years

older than me, such moments reveal

a reason why.  It’s hard to imagine

a man from the generation of 

exercising thumbs saying such 

poetry to me, and staying at my 

side when nightmares arrive.

Then we pull in and see the signs.

Children’s Emergency Room is to 

the right. The rain, standing on 

the roadside, two and then three

ambulances, and all the lights 

find me before morning’s light.

Tears, they pour, and you say,

“I’ll call my sister.” I reply, 

“I’m strong. I’ll get through it.

I’ll be fine.”  

As we pull up to the surgery,

you say, “Remember, they’re going

to save my life,” so we must awake 

from what was to what is although

I’ll still face the nightmares in the

after light.  But I know there is no

one now I need more than you.

By Rebecca T. Dickinson