It is not sweet: The way a cripple lady sits in a green plastic lawn chair at the corner of Jackson and Dearborne. She sells chunks of chocolate to her Chicagoan children for 25 cents. I smile at her plight and she smiles back; gives me a warm hand-held chocolate for free. This reminds me of my mother—how, too, her children ignored her when they grew up, moved away--forgetting her by growing old themselves, dressing fancy and accepting long titles--The slow long forgetfulness of long titles . . .
Dear Mother,
I am pleased with you.
You taught me to die to bitterness—
To die to know
what we can never know.
To die to show
we are aware of beauty.
And in that awareness
distance ourselves not from joy,
but to have quiet hands,
and exist responsive.
Your son (Associate Director of Marketing/Policy Writer),
L.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
It is not sweet. It is forgetfulness.
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3 comments:
That is beautiful and sensitive. You have a real way with words as they say. Your warm voice and honesty must catch everyone's attention when you write for them. Many have called you a writer before me. I am sure.
Interesting the way you use the link of food to ponder the conditions of life. Food the fuel for life seems to fuel writing too it seems.
I agree with Liz your “voice” is captivating, I have been drawn in by it too.
I don’t know if it is the sugar crash that I am experiencing or that your writing inspires careful thought rather that response. After reading your posts, and they read quickly, smoothly, but at a fast pace, I end up not knowing what to say, but rather feeling the need to go back and re savor your words, again.
I am speechless, but feel satiated for having dined on words well written. I feel well read.
You get to the heart of old feeling in new ways. With a few words you spin a beautiful gift to your mother.
I'm here via Liz at Letting Me Be. She has a way of sniffing out fine writers and fine people. Maybe that's because she's both herself.
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