By Matthew T. Birdsall

       “We know what we are, but know not what we may be”
                        -Ophelia, Hamlet, Act IV, Scene 5

Uncertainty looms heavy before sunrise.
Dark driving, she calls it, at 5:00 AM
to the hospital for her surgery,
when she mentions losing our dog,
Penny, a few months ago—
anxiously lumping together unknowns—
and I had trouble focusing
but I tried to turn the conversation around
with compliments—her outfit, hair, shoes—
but I shut down when she said,
It’s okay, Dad, I know that living is dying…

Stuck in the white shock of her wisdom
I wanted to say something to redirect us
but I couldn’t decide whether
she was that conscious of her own mortality
or if she was just being a child—
redirecting gravity away from her upcoming operation
toward something more certain.

At the last minute, the operation was canceled.
As we walked out, my daughter took my hand
because she knew I needed it telling me she felt good.
She said she still missed Penny,
and she would miss her as long as she was alive—
me too I said but holding back on diving deeper
trying not to lump together more unknowns,
as we headed home with just enough sun
to get all the way there without headlights.

---

Matthew T. Birdsall is a poet based in Ohio living with his spouse and two daughters. His debut book was The Long and Short of It. His work has appeared in Right Hand Pointing, Slippery Elm, and elsewhere, and he’s the Editor of the forthcoming journal, The Great Miami Review.