Nightsong

by Philip Booth

Beside you,
lying down at dark,
my waking fits your sleep.

Your turning
flares the slow-banked fire
between our mingled feet,

and there,
curved close and warm
against the nape of love,

held there,
who holds your dreaming
shape, I match my breathing

to your breath;
and sightless, keep my hand
on your heart's breast, keep

nightwatch
on your sleep to prove
there is no dark, nor death.

"
Nightsong" by Philip Booth, from Lifelines. © Viking Press, 1999. Reprinted with permission


When this poem arrived from Garrison Kiellor today I read it and was moved at how well it describes what I want each night as I drift off to sleep.  This certainly can't be a unique experience; I'm sure that anyone who mourns the death of a loved one with whom they have shared a bed knows what this is like. I know too that this is far more than a memory for me.


This morning I drove over to the school where son John teaches in Dearborn, and spent a delightful morning with him.  He asked me to teach his anatomy class a lesson on stress and how it affects the body--something I did many times while a counselor at Huron High in Ann  Arbor. (And, who wouldn't be pleased at the opportunity to teach with one of his children?)  It was a special time for me, I always enjoyed working with young people that age, and this was a particularly diverse group,    (Dearborn is the city where the highest number of Arab-Americans live anywhere in America.)  They were attentive, and at the conclusion of the class, after I had led them in a guided imagery exercise, several of them told me that I should come back every Friday:)   As I had them list things that cause them stress, it was I who was educated.  They are growing up in a world that is far different from what I knew at that age.  Yet, in some respects some of their concerns; dating, fitting in, worrying about college, relationships with others, etc. are the same things I worried about as a teenager.  Concern about the environment, texting, Face book status updates, and the like were all new to me.


The school where John teaches is a career-training center, and one of their programs is hospitality.  I was able to join him and his colleagues at a beautifully prepared and presented meal afterwards.  The teachers there are always warm and inviting, and they treat me as one of their own.  One of the students sent me home with a Valentine cupcake.  It's too pretty to eat.


As I drove home I felt comforted and satisfied at being able to do what I had just done.  Then. . .old habits die hard; "I can't wait to get home and tell Gwen about this!"  Oh, yes. . . 


 A line from an old song just popped into my head, Dear:  The song is ended; but the melody lingers on.  What a song it was and what a melody we still sing.