Child

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You come out to the living room after bedtime

Bearing  your simple question, like a passport.

It always begins with “What does it mean?”

and ends with “But that’s not an answer!”

 

I can barely answer any of them, Child:

not what orders the periodic table

nor what lies beyond space, if anything at all.

But standing before you, I suddenly feel

that I may not have that much left to learn after all,

and I might already be there.

 

And when you drag your feet back to bed

dwarfish in size, gigantic to my eyes

I know I can now remain silent in the years to come

just listening outside your door

while you read and fall asleep.

 

There is something beyond space, child,

I want you to know.

And it is for its sake I approach your bedside light

turning it off. On. Off again.

From within, the house winks at the stars.