Practicing Absence   

by Meg Campbell


A student showed me how her Cambodian grandmother
taught her to walk on the balls of her feet
with such deliberate lightness,
not a tap or swish escaped.
Hayley floated across my living room floor as a spirit, 
accompanied by delicate, resounding silence.

Today I recalled her demonstration
of invisibility, of being absorbed into absence
because I was in a tugging contest with myself.
What to keep? What to give or throw away?
As I cleared shelves, I realized this burden,
should I forfeit it,
would fall to my daughters upon my death.
But if I pretended to be dead now
& the person deciding what to save, what to release,
I might spare them wondering why I had,
like my mother, saved years
& years of academic planners. 
I tossed them out.

Imagining my absence has been on my mind
in the form of offering attentive, vibrant silence
when before
I interrupted often to proclaim
unsolicited ideas and advice.
Aspiring now to visit from the land of quiet. 
Stillness. Calm.

This is new.

I draw inspiration from my mother and grandmother
who visited without divulging judgment
on my life or home.
Guests. Perfect guests. 
So like a wild horse to be tamed,
I must bite down upon a bit.

They will be fine, my daughters.
They will flourish.
We have come to the bend in the road
where they no longer need me.
They will miss me. But they no longer need me.

This is a practice of coiled self-discipline,
imaging myself departed.
There is no dread, no weariness.
Instead a sense when I do step across,
the ground will feel familiar.
It shall hold and I shall walk upon it 
without causing any sound. 


* * * * *

Meg Campbell is the author of two collections of poetry, Solo Crossing and More Love (Midmarch Arts Press, NYC).