The Invisible Sign

5 a.m.

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On a cold and snowy morning

It’s been nearly fifty years
since that cold, snowy morning—
when I woke for work
and went to the window
to see what the night delivered.

It was 5 a.m.,
and Tenth Avenue glistened
beneath the glow
of ice-laden streetlamps—
hanging, spear-like,
filled with light.

Snow had fallen through the night,
leaving the house as cold as a cave;
the usual darkness of that hour
interrupted by a dim light
spilling down the hallway.

Very near to giving birth
to our third child,
Kate lay beside me,
and I wanted to remain
close to her warmth.

Carefully slipping from the blankets
to keep out the chill,
I briefly watched her sleep
as I dressed to face
the ankle-deep cold
waiting outside.

In the hall, the unusual glow
was the lamp in your room—
which felt odd:
that you should be awake, reading,
at this hour,
on such a bitter morning.

I stepped to your doorway,
thinking to say good morning,
and found your bed empty.

I leaned over the railing
and peered into the darkness
at the bottom of the stairs.

My heart began to pound—
where could you have gone?

The bathroom at the end of the hall stood dark,
the door wide open,
the house filled with silence
I couldn’t explain.

Reaching for the bathroom switch,
I saw you there—
in the dim light—sitting silently,
your head against the wall,
and your cat
perched on your lap.

Leaving the room dark, I called out.
My voice hung there,
absorbed by the cold darkness,
having no effect.

Again and again,
but you didn’t stir.

Nothing but the green glow of eyes,
reflecting the dim light
in perfect stillness.

I came to you—touched you.
Your skin: bitterly cold,
hardened by the absence of life,
frozen by the night’s snow.

This day’s sun
will not rise for you.

A sudden, deep darkness
filled the world
around me.

How long had you been—
why didn’t you call out
when I was only a few steps away?

I could have come to you—
rescued you,
been with you
when this,
when this happened.

Then I, too, was frozen,
unable to move.

Back in the hall, I stood—
then returned again,
to be sure—
that it was real,
not a dream, not a nightmare

What do I tell her?
Should I tell her now?
How do I tell her?

Panic. Shock-brain.

I felt my chest tighten—
my heart beating, pounding.

What to do.

I had to call someone.

Kate is pregnant—
bad news—shock—the baby—

just don’t go into the bathroom—
I told her—

Down the stairs to the phone.

Dial 911—“It’s my mother.”
“Someone will be right there.”

I was fading, my eyes welling.

Call your brother—call your brother—

I dialed…

“Hey… Mom is gone.”

I told him what I could:
“She died in the night.”

He arrived in time,
before you were carried away.

We watched as you left us,
shrouded in that black bag—

the life with your grandchildren
you’d looked forward to—

gone from the house
before the morning warmed.

_{—James Eichenlaub (2025)}