Yes, those are Holden's famous last words. He's on the mend in the hospital, and, with some distance from the events of the book, Holden is becoming nostalgic for the people he's left behind in his life. Even the people who irritated the crap out of him.
I have a new poem for you guys tonight. It's about being nostalgic and wistful for the past. It was inspired by my recent screening of the movie Citizen Kane to my Intro to Film class at the university. I've been thinking about this subject for quite some time.
That's about all I have to say tonight. I'm tired, and I have a long day of church tomorrow. We are having worship and then the annual Fall Back Festival.
If you're in Negaunee, Michigan, tomorrow, stop by Mitchell United Methodist Church, have a hotdog, and listen to Saint Marty playing with the church's praise band.
P. S. Two new Confessions of Saint Marty cartoons tomorrow.
Rosebud
Maybe I'll whisper Jiminy,
think of long grass in August
when clouds of grasshoppers
erupted from nowhere, arced
through the air, sang a song
of wing and leg against my shins.
Or maybe I'll mutter Obi,
see a garden of carrots, peas, peppers,
a turtle small as my five-year-old
hand, moving, digging in mud,
hungry for worm or cricket or grub.
Or maybe it will be Omni,
lemon verbena on her dark skin
beside me in the lecture hall, weeks
of wanting to reach out, touch her
in places beyond my study notes,
know every glossary and index of her.
It may be Maria or Screwtape,
nicotine fingers, white hair,
a ribbon of appendix scar, dog bite.
What will travel down the Amazon
of memory to my tongue
those last seconds? What
sled or bicycle or book?
Something small, no doubt.
A stuffed giraffe. Chewed-up quilt.
Angel fish. Yeah, my angel fish.
Think her name was Athena.
Maybe. Athena, that sounds right.
God, she was beautiful.
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