October 21: Boot prints, Small Steps, New Poem

I've been thinking about my legacy a great deal today.  I know that sounds pretty heavy.  I've been wondering what my daughter and son will have of me when I shuffle off this mortal coil.  I wonder if I'll be able to leave them money or valuable artwork or maybe a nice house.  I wonder if their memories of me will be happy, full of beaches and pizzas and games of Monopoly.  Maybe I've already made my mark.  Maybe my daughter will simply have the memory of me driving her to dance class tonight, and my son will remember me giving him a brownie this afternoon.  Maybe that's it.  Small steps.

I guess each moment we live on this planet is full of small steps.  Each small step hopefully adds up to something lasting.  Significant.  As a writer, of course, I hope, with every poem or story or essay, to make a difference in the world.  I've always thought of writing as one of the ultimate acts of hope.  If you write, you hope to communicate.  If you communicate, you strive to connect with someone.  If you connect with someone, you bring about understanding and compassion.  If you bring about understanding and compassion, you've been a good and faithful servant of the universe.

Saint Marty has a new poem tonight.

One Small Step

I think of Armstrong’s track.   Still perfect, forty years later.  Ribbed, full of shadow and lunar dust.  I think of him on that July day, on the ladder, as he practiced in his head what he would say as his foot descended.  Mouthing the words over and over until they seemed as natural as bats chasing mosquitoes, mist at Niagara.  Yesterday, as I drove home, I stared at the knuckle of moon.  Half in shadow.  I wondered if that giant leap was in the darkness.  Or if it blazed under the sun’s light, the way my son’s hand print blazed on my windshield when headlights struck the glass.  Thumb.  Index.  Middle.  Ring.  Pinky.  Palm.  A smudge he made one night when he tried to scoop the moon from the heavens.  I hope he keeps reaching, leaves constellations of himself across the sky.  Small boot prints on the cosmos.

One small step for Armstrong...