One Whistle at Every Gate

Five-twenty. Last bag. Same road. The sorting shed is still half sleeping. Blue canvas pulls against my coat. Mrs. Reed lifts one checked curtain. Young Tom answers by the goats. No stamp waits at the Cooper turning, still I slow beside their wall. Six notes travel through the hedgerow. Two come softly from the hall. Thirty-one years on this narrow road, new paint, old names, one rule: the letters tell me where to stop; the quiet tells me what to do. One whistle at every gate. Let it rise, then let it wait. If a curtain moves or two notes come, I know that house has made it through. One whistle at every gate, six small notes across the grey. The letters tell me where to stop. The answers tell me who is safe. Maya rides one length behind me, new red lamp and trouser clip. At number twelve she works the brake hard, keeps the blue bag on her hip. She asks, “Why stop? There is no letter.” I point up toward the bedroom blind. She tries the phrase, one high note wavering. A kettle taps back twice in time. I say, “The route has one more ledger. Not every line is written down. Learn which gates should give an answer. Turn back when one makes no sound.” One whistle at every gate. Let it rise, then let it wait. Now Maya holds the final two notes; the kitchen blind goes up at eight. One whistle at every gate, six small notes across the grey. The letters tell her where to stop. The silence tells her when to stay. In February, ninety-eight, ice sealed every cattle trough. Mr. Grey’s blue van sat waiting. No thin answer crossed the frost. I left my bicycle at his gate and found him by the coal-shed door. The doctor said another hour would have been one hour too long. Since then I never called it music, never passed an answer by. Six small notes became a question: “Are you there?” and “I’m alive.” One whistle at my garden gate. Let it rise, then let it wait. Maya’s freewheel slows outside; I lift the kitchen blind at eight. One whistle at my garden gate, six small notes across the grey. No letter has my name today. She only stops to hear me say: I set the old blue bag beside me. Her red lamp rounds the bend. The road has asked its small question. I send the answer after it.