We all do things to distract ourselves in unpleasant situations. Cell phones have become the favored method. How many times have you walked into a restaurant and seen an entire group of people eating, not engaged in conversation, simply staring like fish at the little screens in their hands? People can just disappear without disappearing.
Billy Collins flies to Seattle . . .
Note to Antonín Dvořák
by: Billy Collins
Maestro, I am writing to tell you
that your serenade in D minor
with its stretches of martial confidence
then some sweet wanderings of the woodwinds
has not really brought me to the edge of anything,
yet compared to the inane move
being shown on this long flight to Seattle,
listening to your music has made me a better
person than that other self,
so slack of jaw and fishy of stare,
who would have watched the movie to its end
oblivious to the startling 33,000 feet of air below.
I never visited your tomb in Prague
or even the site of your former apartment
on East 17th Street before it was demolished
to make room for a hospital for sufferers from AIDS.
So I am thanking you here for the lift
of a tune to ride with over the clouds
high above towns bisected by roads,
and fields with their plowed circles.
You remind me of a canary
I once stared at for an unusually long time
and the communion that developed between us
as we gazed into and out of the unhooded cage.
Time well spent, I thought,
as the bird broke it off and began to peck
at the image of his twin in a little oval mirror,
leaving me to return to the many ways
we have concocted to waste our lives--
ten thousand at least, wouldn't you say,
Maestro, with your baton, your furious pencil,
and the closet where all your dark clothes used to hang.
Collins is practicing his own method of disappearing in this poem. He's flying to a distant city, listening to a tune by Dvořák, thinking about anything other than his distance from the ground below. In this case, it's a canary and a Czech composer.
Today my distraction was my little puppy. It was her fifth birthday. Hard to believe that she's been a part of our lives for that long already. And I will say that I can't imagine my life without her. She brings so much joy to our home with her energy and kisses and unconditional devotion.
I never thought I was a dog person. When we first married, my wife and I had a crazy cocker spaniel named Nick. He was a rude little puppy, highly territorial, aggressive with strangers, and expert at stealing food off plates. My hand still bears a few scars from trying to get a sock out of his jaws. Yet, when Nick was sitting in my lap, his head on my knees, I felt my heart unfolding like a morning glory at dawn.
Because of his personality, Nick wasn't really a dog that could be around babies and small children. So, when my daughter was born, my wife and I made the difficult decision to give Nick up to a more suitable home. It was one of the hardest days of my life, walking away from his cage at the Human Society, hearing him whine and scratch for me to come back. Even as I type these words, I can feel a dam of tears behind my eyes.
My wife and I rarely talk about Nick, but, just the other day, I said to her, "I've been thinking about Nick. I hope he had a good life."
My wife nodded, pressed her lips together, said, "I do, too."
These furry companions don't know how much they change our lives. They remind us, even in the darkest, most fractured times, that unconditional love still exists. That everyone deserves it.
Saint Marty wishes his hairy little bundle of joy a happy, happy birthday.
No comments:
Post a Comment