I wonder what Billy Collins would think about the fact that I had to muscle my way around a rack of paperbacks to access the Poetry section in our local bookstore. Like the Poetry section was small to begin with and then they parked this rack of trade paperbacks in front of it, the implication being …
I was there to buy a book of poems for someone who has cancer. The efforts of the bookstore to hide the poetry and to thwart my intent were in vain, and I came away with the right book of poems in my hand.
I don’t really know this person well enough to choose a novel for them, or even nonfiction, but I know that words can be a lifeboat. So I went for poetry by Billy Collins because the first time I read him, it was during the course of one bath and I was surprised to somehow find myself in cold water, in the almost-dark, and turning the last page of the book.
It was total poetic gluttony. I was a little ashamed that I didn’t show more restraint, and quite wrinkly.
I hope it was the right choice of book.
{oh my goodness, look at him.}
I wrote this poem before I knew for sure he was going away. But I already knew. Holding the poem was like that feeling of knowing you’re pregnant, but when you can’t tell anyone yet.
~Curator~
Since this has been my life’s work,
the work that I have strived for the hardest,
loved the best,
the work that has brought me to tears and frustration,
baffled and inspired me,
this work of wonder and miracles
(sometimes all in the same five minutes)
it’s no surprise that I’m terrified.
You were difficult,
pushing every limit,
imperious,
enamored with power
so early.
You may have had some notion
coming here
that you would be a boy prince.
It’s possible that you faced this disappointment
every morning when you woke,
expecting a room of courtiers and satin slippers,
but getting us regular people instead,
the make-your-own-bowl-of-Cheerios sort.
So you really made me
the parent I have become.
As a small person,
you were the Zen master who
switched the tender backs of my knees
every. minute. of. every. day.
to be sure I was fully present,
paying attention,
alive in each moment,
because
YOU
WERE.
Sometimes I just wanted to space out,
tune out.
Have a thought.
But you were there to help me elevate my practice:
work to art
work of art
art of work
heartful work.
I don’t take credit for who you are,
because you were yourself
right from the first moment.
Your eyes were wide,
taking in the panoply of adoring grandparents
and one uncle,
all present at your birth.
You arrived into all this love
and have kept your
eyes wide open
ever since.
But I will take some credit
for the short life you have lived
which has been imperfect,
full of mistakes,
hurt feelings,
the wrong things said and made up for,
angry words,
funny,
loving,
ridiculous,
morning Mom Songs,
zesty word play,
and
“numbers like roads
since there are so many ways to get to each one”
great books shared,
poetry,
debate,
ideas,
Invisible Poker,
“You never forget your first Miss Hannigan,”
amazing and wonderful adults,
laughter,
warmth around the dinner table,
and lavender footbaths
when you were at your worst.
So:
You.
You who made my dream job possible.
My best work and my life’s work.
I’m sending you out,
out there into the big world
of salmon pants and tortoiseshell glasses,
the world of big ideas and some very smart people,
your people,
who will expand your mind and feed your heart
(I won’t say soul because I don’t want you to vomit)
and they’ll finish the work I started.
The waves of panic
hit my heart with your old familiar relentlessness,
mostly in the small moments alone in the car
or late at night
when I can’t keep them away.
Because I know you are ready to go.
Postscript 3/9/15 on the Occasion of his Acceptance:
You’ve outgrown us.
–And I thought we had two more years,
but it’s now.
You’re going.
Just this week,
when we had that kerfuffle about your missing boots,
via text message,
I thought:
This is how I know we’re done here.
Oh Iris , how beautiful .
Sent from my iPad
>
That was beautiful. It made me go back and seek out the one I wrote for the same reason back in 2006. Thank you.
Oh, My! They go, and come back a different person. Then they go and come back someone you don’t know at all. Then they go and come back someone you’ve know all their lives and maybe your own, as well.
So moved and touched. Beautiful. Miss you all. Sending love