“The Night Where You No Longer Live” by Meghan O’Rourke

A speaker asks their loved one questions about death and the afterlife

Was it like lifting a veil

And was the grass treacherous, the green grass

 

Did you think of your own mother

 

Was it like a virus

Did the software flicker

 

And was this the beginning

Was it like that

 

Was there gas station food

and was it a long trip

 

And is there sun there

or drones

or punishment

or growth

 

Was it a blackout

 

And did you still create me

And what was I like on the first day of my life

 

Were we two from the start

And was our time an entrance

or an ending

 

Did we stand in the heated room

Did we look at the painting

 

Did the snow appear cold

Were our feet red with it, with the wet snow

 

And then what were our names

Did you love me or did I misunderstand

 

Is it terrible

 

Do you intend to come back

 

Do you hear the world’s keening

 

Will you stay the night

In the aftermath of the death of a loved one, it’s common for a flurry of questions to overwhelm our thoughts. We wonder why it had to happen, where they might have gone off to, and what our lives will look like now that they’re gone. These are questions without answers. To those who have recently lost a loved one, the countless unanswered questions and the perpetual longing for understanding reveal life’s inherent uncertainty.

Meghan O’Rourke’s, “The Night Where You No Longer Live,” is completely comprised of such unknowable questions. The speaker, recently bereaved, addresses their questions to their loved one. Some questions delve into the experience of death itself, while others ponder the mysteries of the afterlife. The inquiries vary strikingly, weaving between vividly detailed imagery and straightforward, raw questions that plead for answers — like when they ask pointedly, “Is it terrible.”

Notably missing in this poem full of questions, however, is the grammatical demarcation of question marks. For each of the 29 questions this poem poses, there is not a single question mark that follows. As readers, we are given no signs to stop or take a breath; questions bleed from line to line, stanza to stanza without any punctuation to separate them. The effect on the reader is one of slight overwhelm. Such is the feeling of the recently bereaved — an incessant stream of uncertainties that wants for answers, for clarity, for acknowledgement, unkept by any enclosures, boundlessly occupying the mind.

The final question in the poem asks, in earnest, “Will you stay the night.” Prior to the last line, each question was motivated by gaining insight into the inaccessible experience of death and the afterlife. In the end, however, the speaker doesn’t ask for their loved one’s intangible answers, they ask for their physical presence. The concluding line implies that beneath all our unanswered questions lies a fundamental longing: to reunite with our loved ones, to regain the assurance of their presence. Yet, like every preceding question, this final plea remains unanswered. It captures a poignant and deeply relatable desire following a loss — for more time. “The Night Where You No Longer Live” serves as a reminder to cherish our moments with loved ones while we still have the chance to connect with them.

O’Rourke, in addition to writing poetry, is a New York Times best-selling author, editor and podcaster. Her work orbits topics that aren’t easy to talk about. She’s written a book on chronic illness (“The Invisible Kingdom”) and a memoir on her experience with grief after the death of her mother (“The Long Goodbye”). In exploring these frequently avoided topics of discussion, O’Rourke hopes to make people feel less alone in their experience.

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