Before I Fall Asleep; Unanswerable Questions

I close my eyes to the sounds of trees stirring,

a wide-open window, awake in the pitch-black darkness

of my eyelids. This should be it, the end of my night,

the wind being the only disruptor

of my silence. There is commotion

at the window and I hear the frame creak

as something enters, heavy and unmanageable, hurrying

with clock-like ticks up the wall

and onto the ceiling above me.

You have one question for tonight the visitor

says in a silent voice of my own, smiling down

like a bladed ceiling fan. “Why tonight?” is my first instinct,

wanting any explanation for the erratic visits. I feel

the presence from underneath a cement

blanket, it can see right through me. I know

that is not what you wanted to ask. The visitor shifts

with a breath of cool air.

“I don’t think anything happens

when we die,” I say with my eyes

still closed, breath slowing and mind racing.

Is that a question? the visitor responds, same voice

as before. I notice an uproar within the walls, unprompted,

and continue “I would like to believe

we can go somewhere but I just can’t.”

I could feel the visitor grow impatient as

it is almost time to leave, to make room

for its larger, more complicated successor

who will pass through until morning. I prefer

the visitor but want nothing at all, it is not my choice,

and I ask it to stay a little while longer.

“I still have my question left

before you go.”

The visitor stops at the window

and allows the delay

resentfully, honoring our agreement

as my night depends on it. Questions

cycle through my head— What do you look

like? Why can’t I see you? Who else do you go to

other than me? The visitor can hear my thoughts

from a perch on the corner, latched on

like a collection of dust.

“If I opened my eyes,

would you still be there?” I ask without trying. The answer

is apparent as I get no response. The deliberation

is over, the window grows silent, and I am asleep.

Someone else is here.