I made out better than many did. I still have my partner, my pets (though as some of you might remember, one of those was a close call). I still have my house, my things. I still have my job (though we all took pay cuts for the time-being). Apart from inhabiting a scarred and battered city that’s staggering back toward normalcy, my life continues apace, more or less.
Among the few things I did lose, the most damaging losses, the ones that have most affected me, have been the friends who have moved on–people I saw that Friday, people I talked to about the approaching storm, people I tried to keep calm, all the while, thinking in the back of my head, “Man, I better go move my stuff to the second floor.”
I’d only worked with Jackson for a year or so. She was young, but very savvy, very efficient, and completely, utterly adorable. Her interests, energy, and aesthetics were a perfect match for mine: we got along like gangbusters.
Jackson was to be married in early October, one week before my brother tied the knot. The wedding was all the way up in Nashville, but I was hoping to find a way to sneak up and surprise her.
Of course, that didn’t happen.
Her wedding did go on as planned, though. As luck would have it, one of my other co-workers had also evacuated to Nashville, and she went. It was great, apparently.
I bring all this up because yesterday that co-worker brought in a copy of the wedding program, which Jackson had spent so much time fiddling with in the months before. And amongst all the thank yous and the list of bridesmaids and groomsmen was a poem by Billy Collins that perfectly described the happy couple. Being the literary connoisseurs that you are, I’m sure you already know it by heart, but for me it was new and funny and sweet. What can I say? I’m a wuss when it comes to that kinda schmaltzy pomo poetry crap…
Litany
You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine…
-Jacques Crickillon
You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.
However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.
It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general’s head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.
And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.
It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.
I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.
I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman’s tea cup.
But don’t worry, I’m not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and–somehow–the wine.
— Billy Collins
sturtle [dot] com 