Down the Hall

By Jennifer Davis Michael

I am going down the hall
in my childhood house.
Our father has summoned
my brother and me.
It feels like a dream, and not.
The hall seems shorter,
ceilings lower.
I let my brother go first,
though I was first. We pass
his bedroom door, then mine,
the photos in their frames.
At the end is our father's bed.
He has things to say,
not the last things, not yet,
and yet the movement feels
like last, and first,
down the hall,
a narrowing space.
I will be here again,
and soon.
Down the hall.
My father calls.