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.