calling home

3:30-something in the morning.

I wake up. The phone rings. My heart sinks.

Mother answers. It's the hospital.

You've been called—called home, or so they say.

Where is home? The heavenly kingdom?

No, no, home has always been right here.

Sitting on the couch, watching TV.

Drinking an ice-cold lemon water.

Music echoing from your earbuds

while you take in the fresh lake air.

This is the place where you have called home.

But someone packed your bags this morning;

decided you've stayed here long enough.

Sixty years feels like sixty seconds

when you find out your train is leaving.

The only calling-home taking place

is the messenger sharing "sad news"

to your wife on the end of the line.

When the phone rings after 3 o'clock

you know it's Death who has come to talk.