Times You Were by Halle Kostansek

Times You Were

By Halle Kostansek

The time you were standing there all along
behind your little son on the stairs
as he introduced himself to me, and I blushed
and you beamed at his poised and confident air;

The time your cat had kittens
and your accent loved “the litt-le grey one”,
whom you cradled in white hands and promised
to me when she was old enough to wean;

The time the children bedecked you
in paper and sent you out in their parade;
The time your hair was short and you wore
a flapper’s dress and beads Halloween Day;

The time you smiled and sang an extra bar
from far back in the church’s silent nave,
where you’d written me a mother’s love letter
and forty lines on living acts of grace;

The time they laid hands on you, all the women,
and with love embraced you, but the cancer
stayed; the time the needle hurt you; all
the times it was impractical to pray;

The first time we saw you without
your hair—your daughter’s wedding,
a windswept day,
with all the little children there;

The time your son was grown
and handsome, and retreated to the silence
of the darkest room, where the dim world
milled around him, and he bowed his head
and sighed and wept alone;

The time you lay and read your psalms
beneath the big oak tree, the light
on your pale blue skirt just like
the sun on a glimmering postcard-perfect sea;

The time you were swathed in waves of white
linen, your pale hands consumed to bone,
your mouth a silent arc
on the face of a captive ghost;

The time you rose panting, your sighs a flicker
in your labor-weary throat,
and your cheek lay on his temple—
the last time you held your firstborn close.

Halle Wurst Kostansek is a Senior at Mercyhurst College in Erie, Pennsylvania with a dual major in Russian Studies and English. When not indulging her fascination with the "play" of language, she can be found pinned beneath a population of precocious felines from which her husband must carefully, gingerly unearth her.


	Times You Were By Halle Kostansek The time you were standing there all along behind your little son on the stairs as he introduced himself to me, and I blushed and you beamed at his poised and confident air; The time your cat had kittens and your accent loved “the litt-le grey one”, whom you cradled in white hands and promised to me when she was old enough to wean; The time the children bedecked you in paper and sent you out in their parade; The time your hair was short and you wore a flapper’s dress and beads Halloween Day; The time you smiled and sang an extra bar from far back in the church’s silent nave, where you’d written me a mother’s love letter and forty lines on living acts of grace; The time they laid hands on you, all the women, and with love embraced you, but the cancer stayed; the time the needle hurt you; all the times it was impractical to pray; The first time we saw you without your hair—your daughter’s wedding, a windswept day, with all the little children there; The time your son was grown and handsome, and retreated to the silence of the darkest room, where the dim world milled around him, and he bowed his head and sighed and wept alone; The time you lay and read your psalms beneath the big oak tree, the light on your pale blue skirt just like the sun on a glimmering postcard-perfect sea; The time you were swathed in waves of white linen, your pale hands consumed to bone, your mouth a silent arc on the face of a captive ghost; The time you rose panting, your sighs a flicker in your labor-weary throat, and your cheek lay on his temple— the last time you held your firstborn close. Halle Wurst Kostansek is a Senior at Mercyhurst College in Erie, Pennsylvania with a dual major in Russian Studies and English. When not indulging her fascination with the "play" of language, she can be found pinned beneath a population of precocious felines from which her husband must carefully, gingerly unearth her.