The boy worries about the old man . . .
The boy had brought them in a two-decker metal container from the Terrace. The two sets of knives and forks and spoons were in his pocket with a paper napkin wrapped around each set.
"Who gave this to you?"
"Martin. The owner."
"I must thank him."
"I thanked him already," the boy said. "You don't need to thank him."
"I'll give him the belly meat of a big fish," the old man said. "Has he done this for us more than once?"
"I think so."
"I must give him something more than the belly meat then. He is very thoughtful for us."
"He sent two beers."
"I like the beer in cans best."
"I know. But this is in bottles, Hatuey beer, and I take back the bottles."
"That's very kind of you," the old man said. "Should we eat?"
"I've been asking you to," the boy told him gently. "I have not wished to open the container until you were ready."
"I'm ready now," the old man said. "I only needed time to wash."
Where did you wash? the boy thought. The village water supply was two streets down the road. I must have water here for him, the boy thought, and soap and a good towel. Why am I so thoughtless? I must get him another shirt and a jacket for the winter and some sort of shoes and another blanket.
"Martin. The owner."
"I must thank him."
"I thanked him already," the boy said. "You don't need to thank him."
"I'll give him the belly meat of a big fish," the old man said. "Has he done this for us more than once?"
"I think so."
"I must give him something more than the belly meat then. He is very thoughtful for us."
"He sent two beers."
"I like the beer in cans best."
"I know. But this is in bottles, Hatuey beer, and I take back the bottles."
"That's very kind of you," the old man said. "Should we eat?"
"I've been asking you to," the boy told him gently. "I have not wished to open the container until you were ready."
"I'm ready now," the old man said. "I only needed time to wash."
Where did you wash? the boy thought. The village water supply was two streets down the road. I must have water here for him, the boy thought, and soap and a good towel. Why am I so thoughtless? I must get him another shirt and a jacket for the winter and some sort of shoes and another blanket.
These past few days, the passages from The Old Man and the Sea have all focused on the boy's kindness and devotion toward Santiago. It's something you don't hear a lot about these days--the goodness of young people.
Today, I did a few things. Took my son clothes shopping. He's graduating from the eighth grade on Wednesday, and he didn't have any nice outfits. So, we took him to Kohl's and let him choose some shirts and a pair of pants. He loved every minute of it. When we left the store, he said, "You know, I really like fashion."
Then I attended the high school graduation party for my niece. It was a wonderful celebration of her accomplishments. Lots of food and family and friends. She is a beautiful, smart young woman and has a really bright future. Like the boy in The Old Man and the Sea, she's full of kindness and compassion. Plus, she's funny as heck and loves my Bigfoot poems. That's why I wrote a new Bigfoot poem, made a broadside, and gave it to her this afternoon as a graduation present.
After the party, I went to see Top Gun: Maverick with my wife, son, and wife's cousin and family. I forced my son to watch the original film with me on Friday, so he was all set. It was a good, In fact, I would say it's a little better than the original. Of course, it had a gratuitous shirtless-football-game-on-the-beach scene with lots of flexing and grunting. (The female members of my group took exception with my use of the word "gratuitous.") All in all, a nice way to end a pretty nice day.
Saint Marty gives thanks for clothes shopping with his son, my super-talented niece, and Tom Cruise flying at mach 9.
for Brianna, May 27, 2022
by: Martin Achatz
He is all goodbye, a dark palm
waving from the window of woods
on his way to some other place
where morels blossom like hairs
on his shoulders and porcupines gnaw
birch bark to paste. He is the letting
go of summer into harvest,
harvest into hibernation, the thunder
of his snores splitting cold nights
like a sharp tooth on the tongue
where the names of dead
grandmothers and lost friends
sit. He is the fixed foot
of the compass, solid as mother
or father, and the wandering
foot of child, ever circling
wider and wider to find,
define its own circumference.
As you follow him tonight,
sweet girl, into the swamps
of frog song and mosquito sting,
remember to pause every then
and now, pick up a fallen
branch, and knock hard
on a cypress trunk. To let us
know you are alright. To remind
yourself of that nest of woolly
love you were born to leave.
He is all goodbye, a dark palm
waving from the window of woods
on his way to some other place
where morels blossom like hairs
on his shoulders and porcupines gnaw
birch bark to paste. He is the letting
go of summer into harvest,
harvest into hibernation, the thunder
of his snores splitting cold nights
like a sharp tooth on the tongue
where the names of dead
grandmothers and lost friends
sit. He is the fixed foot
of the compass, solid as mother
or father, and the wandering
foot of child, ever circling
wider and wider to find,
define its own circumference.
As you follow him tonight,
sweet girl, into the swamps
of frog song and mosquito sting,
remember to pause every then
and now, pick up a fallen
branch, and knock hard
on a cypress trunk. To let us
know you are alright. To remind
yourself of that nest of woolly
love you were born to leave.
