Category Archives: Prose and Poetry

You can’t anticipate who or how the driver will be

Someone quiet or sullen

Someone doing his job

You might wonder if he sees you as the person you are

He may well be asking himself the same about you

Yet there you are, both

mostly focused on getting you where you’re going.

This trip the driver began talking as soon as he pulled into the roadway

Complaints about his boss, angry at him for some confusion

I didn’t hear the words so much as I noticed the energy in his voice

So I gathered myself, preparing to be witness to

a ride full of judgment and blame.

Then he commented on the ferry ride I was heading for

The energy shifted and lightened as I responded.

A door opened; he announced today was his birthday

I smiled and wished him well.

And in the next four minutes of conversation

I witnessed the man behind the wheel of this cab

The whole of his life

His aspirations and deep disappointments

Laid bare before a stranger

It was really a very short ride,

but it covered a long journey

One that I was privileged to glimpse

from the back seat of his car.

It was, in fact, the most privileged moment of my day.

She sat on the red vinyl covered chair in the corner of the kitchen.  She might have been talking with my mom, but as I recall she hardly ever said anything.  It would probably be more accurate to say that whatever she said didn’t interest me.   After all, I was very young, and she was very old.  What I do remember was how she would comment on how tall I had grown.  She referred to me as a “long, tall drink of water.”  I still don’t know what that means.

I guess most of the time I was passing through the room, not stopping unless interrupted by the adults.  Generally, I’d be on my way out the back door.  As I ran by I would catch glimpses of her gray hair, her eyeglasses, the wrinkled skin,  the inevitable flowered dress.  And both her hands resting in her lap, shaking.

I was young but not so young that I didn’t know that she had Parkinson’s disease.  That was why her hands shook.  There was a time that my mom gave her knitting needles and yarn thinking that knitting would calm the tremors.  Perhaps by then, the disease had progressed so that it took too much effort to work the needles.  Or maybe it was lack of motivation on her part.  Or maybe she was simply too tired.

Grandma had after all raised 8 children.  She had to be tired.  And by then there were sixteen grandchildren.  No wonder she didn’t really say very much to us.  She had probably had enough of kids running past her.  It seemed to us that we were light years away from the place in life that she was in.  We were full of energy and eager to try every new thing;  she sat quietly in her chair.

We never imagined that we would be like Grandma.  She was an old person with no where to go and nothing to do.  There would sometimes be hushed conversations in the other room about who would take her, whose home she could go to next.  I remember the emotion in the air around those talks – a kind of reluctance and resentment.  Grandpa had been dead for some time, and no one really wanted to take care of her.

I wonder now what it must have been like, to feel burdensome to your sons and daughters.  I wonder now what thoughts and feelings my grandma must have had.  I wonder now if she knew some secret that she kept to herself about being old.  And, if she did, I wonder now why she didn’t tell us so we could understand. 

This is a day for those of us old enough to remember how it used to be to acknowledge and appreciate what it took to get this far.

This is a time for gratitude and for passing on the story of what’s possible.

This is an hour for being thankful for those who spoke up, who marched, who refused to be held down, who believed in the capacity of people to change.

This is a moment of reverence for a man who told his dream out loud, shared it with the nation, wouldn’t let it die.

This is a hope that we never forget the man who taught all of us what it means to stand up and not be afraid.

It was a lazy summer afternoon, the stifling kind that suffocates the desire to do anything.  Even thinking what to do takes more effort than is worth summoning.  It was a time of exquisite boredom – the type suffered by children on such a day as this in the middle of August.  I don’t believe that adults have such days, or perhaps it is that they have many more important distractions to occupy them.  But for us, the infinite moment of NOW can loom large and empty and static at times, leading to that most difficult of endeavors – finding something to do.

So it was an aimless energy that drew me up the hill to where my cousins lived.  There were eight of them in a house that seemed to be always on the edge of chaos.  There used to be six, and then the twins were born.   On this day I was hoping to find Seth, the oldest.  He was closest to my age, though we were not close in other ways.  I guess when there are that many of you, it pays to keep as much to yourself as possible.  I was just hoping he might have something interesting to offer on a stagnant day like this.

I saw him by the swing set which was near the edge of the field quite far from the house.  He was sitting on one of the swing seats, twirling it til it wouldn’t go any farther and then letting go, propelling him round and round a few times.  He didn’t see me right away given that he seemed to be focused on his feet or maybe his eyes were closed.  In any case, I was glad for another person to share my boredom.

Hey Seth, what are you doing?

Nothing.  What does it look like.

What do you want to do?

I don’t know…

Sometimes I wonder how many times we actually had this same conversation.  It wasn’t a dialogue that really had a direction; it simply described the moment.  It’s the moment of being where you are now and not wanting to be there.  It wasn’t a desperate sense, more like a search for the right door to open.  The potential for great adventure was there – we simply had to find the way in past this heavy overlay of lethargy.

I sat on the swing next to Seth and began mirroring his twirling movements.  I wasn’t really trying to think of something to do, but offered an idea.  

Want to ride bikes?

Where to?

Down the hill to the store.

I don’t have any money; do you?

No, of course not.

I got off the swing and walked over to the thick grass nearby.  The field had lots of tall grass, except the flattened areas where the deer had lain the night before.  There were also wild strawberries in that field – little treasures that were usually not too difficult to find.  I laid down on my back, smelling the sweet grass.

Look at the clouds up there.  They’re so big and have such strange shapes.  Imagine if we lived up there.

Seth came over and stretched himself out next to me, folding his arms under his head.

Yeah, I’d take that giant one over there – the one with lots of room.  I’d have it all to myself.  See those bulges on that side – those are the steps to go upstairs.

What’s up there?

My private room, that’s what.

Am I allowed in?

I don’t know, maybe.

Well, my cloud is over there.  That’s where I live.  You could visit me whenever you want.  But I might not be there, because my cloud can travel really far from here.

How far would you go?

Maybe I’d go all the way to India and see the Taj Mahal or Peru and see Machu Picchu.  Maybe even Easter Island to see the stone heads in the ground.  Do you want to come?

I don’t think so.

That’s okay.  I can tell you all about what I see and the people I meet.

I remember these times as an adult.  Seth and I would lie in the tall grass and tell stories about the cloud people, who of course were always us – or who we wanted to be.  Mostly I’d travel in my cloud, and he would have adventures in his.  Sometimes other friends would join in, but it was Seth and I that directed the stories.

Strange now to remember how he didn’t care to travel anywhere.  He was happy in his big cloud house with lots of room.  Yet he was the one who traveled far away to Vietnam and then never came back.

A path seems big, life defining big

Unlike a journey which could be a day trip

Perhaps it’s the intention contained

Or because of some direction defined

A path might be a diving in or a forging ahead

As much an inner roadway as an out-in-the-world one

Is it always defined by the place you want to get to?

Or is it better known by the events along the way?

Ever want to lie down and just soak up

the experience you’re having in it right now?