Catastrophe, always the biggest headline
in the larger world: oil spills, glaciers
calving, an avalanche slamming into a train.
In the Outer Banks, houses on stilts fall
into the ocean as waves roll their refrain of
Doomsday, doomsday. Meanwhile, the earth
softens for spring, and dandelions prepare
insurgency campaigns. I text our handyman
Mark to see if he can help me scrape
the peeling paint off window frames,
caulk the gaps between seams. Small
things like that, we can fix. But I'm
unprepared for all the ways the hours
careen in different directions. What
was yesterday is already tomorrow.
Almost daily, the mail brings a flurry
of invitations to a buffet culminating
in the final, inevitable event: retirement
and long-term plans, Medicare, menus for all
kinds of funeral arrangements. I worry about
my children, themselves trying to clear a path
through this hard and unforgiving life despite
strong résumés, long work hours. Yesterday,
one of them texted me from an automotive shop.
When the manager quietly told her he would change
all four of her tires for the price of one because
he has daughters and knows how difficult it is
for them in the world today, she burst into hot,
grateful tears there, in the midst of air
compressors, exhaust fumes, engine hoists.
With her, I want to remember and marvel at
such strange tenderness: how unobtrusively
it manifests in this life, like the oven's tiny
blue flame that means the burner is clean and
there's enough supply of gas for adequate heat.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
