Night Watch

Night Watch


Every night at eleven she packs a suitcase
Not much; one change of clothes, her flannel pajamas
Toothbrush, deodorant and two pairs of socks rolled into tight white balls
At the last minute she hesitates, throws a lipstick in called Pink ‘n Pretty
The brown speckled suitcase is old with a clasp that sticks
Or pops open unexpectedly

She dresses warmly in a sweater and sweat pants,
Puts on her gray coat; pulls her stocking cap down over her ears
Double ties her shoes, scared of tripping on the laces
Walks slowly down the hall to the red leather chair by the door
Sits, keeping her suitcase within reach
They will be coming soon

“Need a little something to help you sleep?” I ask
“No thank you,” she answers politely
“Just waiting on my parents,
They’ll be taking me back home to the farm tonight.”
“Let me know then, if you need anything, OK?” I say
She smiles at me; nods

She is seventy-three
Orphaned since twelve
Waiting is her night ritual
One in which she is highly disciplined
To remain patient and dry-eyed
They will come, she is sure of it

Her mama taught her how to scrub and polish a floor
Until she could almost see her face in it
How to starch and iron linen napkins and tablecloths
How to draw just enough well water
That none was wasted
How to embroider and quilt



How to shuck corn and shell peas
Exactly where to plant tomatoes so they wouldn’t burn in the summer sun
And how to make a big pot of melt-in-your-mouth beans
Flavored with onions and fatback
How to separate cream and churn it into butter
How to knead the dough for bread

She had the job of brushing old Sam
Who would chase her in the field until she fell
Laughing while he licked her face
They would lay together his head on her stomach
Her hand patting his back
And look at the clouds; pick snapdragons on the way home

She scoots to the edge of her chair when she hears the elevator
But it is only the supervisor
The curving road from farm to town is full of winter danger
She wonders if black ice has formed
“There’s been an accident” a voice says
She pulls her hat tighter over her ears, covers them with both hands

“Shut up!” she yells
“Maggie, are you all right? I ask
When she doesn’t answer I brings tea, sits beside her
Maggie sips her tea looking sideways at me
“You look tired,” I say
“May I help you to bed?”

I walk with Maggie down the long hall
Holding onto her elbow with a light touch
Turn down her bed; help her into a gown
Maggie looks at me, says
“Maybe they’ll come tomorrow,
When the roads aren’t so icy.”

Joy Arnett
March 2008