There is something maddeningly attractive about the untranslatable–about a word that goes silent in transit. Anne Carson

Silence came alive in the house after Jimmy died.
As I sat listening for the footsteps
that would never again descend the stairs,
air pulsed, and I could see the molecules dancing.

The universe held its collective breath with me,
waiting for him to return.
Rain tapping his name on the window,
wind howling for him among the trees.

What is the word for choosing to go on
when a part of you has been torn away?

To face the shattering betrayal of Ya’burnee,
the Arabic word for hoping to die before a beloved.
May you bury me …

I became illiterate the night my son died,
lost my language.
Without words to describe
this new land of the lacking.

Where did you go, Jimmy
when your light went out?
When your soul fled your body
and refused to speak.

How to know when Jimmy is near,
whether he is anywhere,
when like the giraffe, he has no voice
and mine is muted by grief and guilt.

How do we translate the darkness
into words another will understand?
The vacancy that takes shape,
highlighting all that will never be.

The list of what Jimmy is missing grows and grows.
No one warned me how long it would be
or the way my longing would separate me
from the life I thought I was meant to live.

We miss so much
when only silence speaks.
Rushing to fill it
with sounds that can never reach the pain.

Some things cannot be translated
While others were never meant to be.
Wounds so deep
they stop the words.

Sometimes late at night
I stare into the darkness beyond the kitchen window
listening for Jimmy,
willing him to come back.

Wondering if when it’s my time to depart,
he will be there.
Arms outstretched,
wordlessly waiting to walk me home.