It is the second weekend of May. All of my grades for the winter semester at the university have been submitted. The poetry festival is done for another year. I'm not ashamed to say I've been sort of taking it easy since Wednesday, not giving myself any major projects to work on or complete. Just been chillin'.
Of course, that doesn't mean there aren't big things happening in May. My son will be graduating from high school on May 27. That's right. So, I have graduation preparations (pictures, announcements) and party planning (decorations, food, invitations). The end of this month is going to be much more hectic than the beginning. The last hurrah of adolescence before my son is staring adulthood in the eyes.
I remember how sad I got when my daughter graduated high school six years ago. It felt like she was slipping through my fingers like rainwater. For 17 years, my wife and I were the center of her universe until she got that diploma in her hand and realized that the planet was round and outer space infinite. From that moment, every day was her becoming more and more independent. Getting jobs. Moving out and away.
When you think about it, we don't really own anything in this life. Nothing belongs to us. We're just caretaking. Our houses, cars, lawns, communities, country, and kids. When you're gone, someone else will live in your home, drive your car, mow and weed your lawn. Your kids (if you have them) will build their own lives without you. Your community and country will continue to exist (unless some maniac with nuclear codes has a bad night or needs to distract the public from a child sex abuse scandal).
Maybe, if you're a really good person (or a really evil one), you'll live on in memories. You'll still be making people smile or shake their heads ten or 20 years from now.
Marie Howe writes about ownership versus stewardship . . .
What Belongs to Us
by: Marie Howe
Not the memorized phone numbers.
The carefully rehearsed short cuts home.
Not the summer, shimmering like pavement, when Lucia
pushed Billy off the rabbit house and broke his arm,
or our tiny footprints in the back files.
Not the list of kings from Charlemagne to Henry
not the boxes under our beds
or Tommy's wedding day when it was so hot and Mark played the flute
and we waved at him waving from the small round window in the loft,
the great gangs of people stepping one by one into the cold water.
I have, of course, a photograph:
you and I getting up from a couch.
Full height, I stand almost two inches taller than you
but the photograph doesn't show that,
just the two of us in motion
not looking at each other, smiling.
Not even the way we said things, leaning against the kitchen counter.
Not the cabin where I burned my arm and you said, oh, you're the type
that if it hurt, you wouldn't say.
Not even the blisters. Look.
Howe says that even the blisters and scars on our bodies from past injuries and hurts don't belong to us. They're temporary reminders. That's all. When our last breaths leave our lungs, nobody will remember we burned our arms cooking on the potbelly at a cabin one. That experience will be buried or burned with us once we walk through that long, lonesome valley.
My hope is for smiles and happiness. When my son or daughter think of me 40 or 50 years from now (assuming I will not be around), I want them to remember me as a person who was kind and generous and compassionate. And, if I've done my job as a father correctly, my kids will be kind and generous and compassionate, as well. Because kindness and generosity and compassion aren't qualities to hoard--they're meant to be shared and given away.
I typed most of this post at a laundromat. It was a busy day--almost all the washers and dryers spinning and cycling. I was sitting at a community table, earbuds in, typing away on my laptop. There was an older gentleman sitting in a nearby chair with something in his lap that he was running his fingers over. The woman whom I assume was his wife was sitting at the table with me, scrolling on her phone.
At one point, the older gentleman put the item in his lap in a bag by the side of his chair, and I realized it was a book in braille. His wife got up and emptied and load of laundry from a washer into a dryer. When she was done, she walked over to her husband, lifted his hand, and signed a message against his palm. That was when I realized that he was both deaf and blind. I saw him reach into his shirt pocket and remove a grape Tootsie Pop from it. He handed it to the woman.
Not wanting to be rude, I retrained my attention to my laptop and continued to type. The wife finished their laundry, brought it out to their car, and then came back in and signed into her husband's hand that it was time to go. He stood, unfolded his cane, and followed his wife out the door.
When my laundry was done drying 36 minutes later, I carried my clothes baskets out to my Subaru, and then I went back to the community table to pack up my computer and books.
Sitting behind my laptop was the grape Tootsie Pop.
I smiled, picked it up, and put it in my pocket. I carried that small act of generosity and kindness home with me.
This couple reminded me that there is goodness in the world. At a time in the United States when hatred and anger and injustice and cruelty are headlines every day, this man and woman gifted me joy and sweetness. I can't hoard their gift. It's not meant to be hoarded. It's meant to be passed on in some way. Because joy and sweetness don't belong to me, or anybody else, for that matter.
Goodness only remains good when shared. It's the fertilizer for love and peace. Ask Jesus. Or Buddha. Or Muhammad.
Saint Marty's message for today is pretty simple: be a Tootsie Pop giver, not an asshole.
And a new poem . . .
Driving Home from Downstate
by: Martin Achatz
It's a long, listless journey, little
to see except sedans, SUVs speeding
toward some town near Topinabee,
maybe to visit a mother or maiden aunt
who now needs help to knead
dough with digits stiffened and curled
with age, with sweeping and window
cleaning, perhaps collecting dog crap
after a hard winter of endless white.
After the day is done, the drive home
waiting like a headache, perhaps the driver
will hug Mom or Aunt Hester, hold
on a little too long because life
is short and you never know
when winter will return.
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