The Journey

I am looking for a past 
I can rely on
in order to look to death 
with equanimity.
What was given me: 
my mother’s largeness 
to protect me,
my father’s regularity
in coming home from work 
at night, his opening the door 
silently and smiling, 
pleased to be back
and the lights on
in all the rooms
through which I could run 
freely or sit at ease
at table and do my homework 
undisturbed: love arranged
as order directed at the next day. 
Going to bed was a journey.