July 27: "The Drive," Supreme Act of Trust, "Precious Cargo"

Billy Collins goes for a ride . . . 

The Drive

by: Billy Collins

There were four of us in the car

early that summer evening,

short-hopping from one place to another,

thrown together by a light toss of circumstance.

I was in the backseat

directly behind the driver who was talking

about one thing and another

while his wife smiled quietly at the windshield.

I was happy to be paying attention

to the rows of tall hedges

and the gravel driveways we were passing

and then the yellow signs on the roadside stores.

It was only when he began to belittle you

that I found myself shifting my focus

to the back of his head,

a head that was large and expansively held.

As he continued talking

and the car continued along the highway,

I began to divide his head into sections

by means of dotted lines,

the kind you see on the diagram of a steer.

Only here, I was not interested in short loin,

rump, shank, or sirloin tip,

but curious about what region of his cranium

housed the hard nugget of his malice.

Tom, my friend, you would have enjoyed the sight--

the car turning this way and that,

the sunlight low in the trees,

the man going on about your many failings,

and me sitting quietly behind him

wearing my white butcher's apron

and my small, regulation butcher's hat.

I'm not a good passenger in a car.  Prefer to be behind the wheel.  It's very difficult for me to give up that control, unless I have complete confidence in the driver's skills or am incapacitated in some way (it happens with insulin-dependent diabetics).  But, given the choice, I will always drive.

Letting another person drive me somewhere is a supreme act of trust--that the driver will not go all Fast & Furious on me and that the driver knows where the hell we're going.  I once saw President Obama's motorcade traveling from the local airport to a speaking engagement at the university.  The vehicles in that convoy were going at least 80 to 90 miles per hour along the highway with a police escort, which convinced me that I would never want to be President of the United States.

Today, I didn't drive too much.  My wife had the car at work, so much of my ambulation was by foot.  I mowed my lawn, took my puppy for a long walk, and, in the afternoon, strolled up to church to play the pipe organ for Saturday evening Mass.  It was close to 90 degrees Fahrenheit today, so I ended up sweating in impolite places for a good portion of my waking hours.

Now Saint Marty's feet are a little sore tonight.

Precious Cargo

by: Martin Achatz

Every time I picked up her daughter

for a date, my future mother-in-law

would tell me, "Drive safe.  You have

precious cargo."  Her words stuck

with me as I got behind the wheel,

turned the key in the ignition.  It was

a matter of trust, the way a mother robin

pushes her baby out of the nest, trusts

air and feather and instinct to keep

that fledgling safe from gravity's hunger.

I would take her daughter to dinner, a movie,

maybe skinny-dipping in Lake Superior, then,

late on some dark road, parked, slipped

into the back seat with her, pressed against

this precious cargo, felt breath and heartbeat

fluttering on my fingertips, a winged thing

trying to take flight for the first time

into the freckled heavens of my body.

August 20: Really Warm Day, Classic Saint Marty, "1,031, 200 Seconds"

A really warm day, full of wind and sun.  After church, I mowed my lawn and got so hot that I nearly passed out.  Went out for ice cream afterward.

And I've been writing for the rest of the day.  That's something I don't normally allow myself to do.  But I've been working hard all weekend.  Cleaning and mowing and playing music for church.  Plus, I went for a long run yesterday afternoon.

Obviously, this weekend I've also been preoccupied with thoughts of my sister.  I'm sure tomorrow morning, when I go to work, I'll feel her there, too.  I'm ready to have a few relaxing hours before bed now.

Tonight's episode of Classic Saint Marty first aired two years ago, on a really dark day . . .

August 19, 2015:  Bewildered Expression, 6:27 a.m., Maggie Nelson, Unbearably Vivid Colors

And then Ives blinked and found himself standing on the sidewalk beside his wife, across the street from the Church of the Ascension.  On the pavement, just by his feet, was a large piece of canvas, and under it a body, stretched out.   Then the officer lifted off the canvas and shined a flashlight onto the face to reveal the shocked and bewildered expression of his son.

My sister died this morning at 6:27 a.m.

When I saw her last night, she was breathing hard, each intake hitting her chest like a hammer.  I leaned over, said her name and then, "It's me.  Marty."  Her eyelid lifted, and she focused on me.  I told her about my long day of work.  I told her about classes starting next week.  Just before I left, I leaned over and whispered, "You don't have to be afraid, Sal.  You don't."

When I got to my parents' house at around 5 a.m., my sister was surrounded by the people who loved her.  My mother and father, siblings, nieces, nephews, and best friends.  We all stood around her, touched her hands and feet, told her how much we loved her.

Her breaths got slower, the spaces in between longer, and then she was simply gone.

I thought I was prepared for it.  I thought I was going to hold myself together.  I thought a lot of things.  But, in those moments following my sister's death, I felt an incredible emptiness enter me, as if I had been scooped out like a pumpkin at Halloween.  I wasn't prepared.

It has been about twelve hours since that moment.  I am still not prepared for a world without my sister.  For 17 years, I worked with her.  Eight- and nine- and ten-hour days.  I spent more time with her than any of my other siblings, and we knew each other deeply.  Trusted each other deeply.  Loved each other deeply, without having to say it.

There will be no cartoon tonight.  No laughter.

My sister once said to me, "You know, I wish I was as strong as you."

Saint Marty isn't strong tonight.  He's heartbroken.

98 from Bluets

by:  Maggie Nelson

Vincent van Gogh, whose depression, some say, was likely related to temporal epilepsy, famously saw and painted the world in almost unbearably vivid colors.  After his nearly unsuccessful attempt to take his life by shooting himself in the gut, when asked why he should not be saved, he famously replied, "The sadness will last forever."  I imagine he was right.

I miss your smile

 
And a new poem for this Sunday night . . .

1,031,200 Seconds

by:  Martin Achatz

I remember that moment
when your body took that last
bite of air.  Maybe it tasted
like shortcake and strawberries,
full of seed and sun and biscuit.
Or spaghetti sauce, a tomatoey gout
of garlic and basil.  Maybe it filled
you with pine smoke and flame,
cricket arias under a thumbnail moon,
starlight bright as the cream in Dad's
black coffee.  In that mouthful
of oxygen, perhaps you felt Superior
pulling at your thin ankles,
and you ran through waves
with our sisters, driftwood white
as skull scattered along the sandy
applause of shore.  Or maybe, just maybe,
you tasted the skin of my daughter,
the way you did when she was a baby
and you buried your nose in the palm
of her neck.  That's it.  1,031, 020 seconds
ago, you took a breath so sweet
that you didn't need to take another.  You tucked
that breath into the wallet of your lungs,
like a lucky two dollar bill, right behind
your driver's license, a picture
of our parents on their 50th anniversary,
the key to the lockbox under your bed,
where you kept everything important
to you, each freckle and hair,
frog croak and lightning fork.
Each solar eclipse that scorched
your retinas with happiness.