I made the mistake of mentioning poetry to my mom today. I like to call him at least once a week as I walk home from work in the bike trail. It rained today - it rains constantly in this city - and I talked to him as I admired the dripping leaves and misty shingled rooftops from the safety of my black umbrella.
"Mom?"
"Hello, 004! How are things?" He knows each of us by name. He is busy, but never so busy he cannot talk to me.
That is something I like about Mom.
"I have been all right, except . . ." I complained to him about Dr. Wombat's scheme.
"You should try that out more before you quit," Mom said. He is always suggesting for me to try new things.
That is something I cannot stand about Mom.
"What? No! I am not good - I am not interested in poetry!"
"Sweetheart, all of your sisters have hobbies to keep themselves well-rounded. 001 has chess, 002 volunteers at the daycare, 003 has jiu-jitsu, and 005, well, she does some of everything. I've been worried for some time now that you're programmed to be too melancholy, but that'd be a strength in poetry!"
"Let us talk about you instead, Mom. How have you been?" Talking about other people is a) polite, b) makes them like you more, and c) is a great way to change the subject.
"I've been fine; don't change the subject. Either you do something creative with your free time, or I'm going to find you a special someone to cheer you up. 005 has a boyfriend and, as I'm sure she's told you, she seems ecstatically happy about life."
"005 is ecstatically happy no matter what."
Something crashed on the other side of the line, and an alarm went off. "Sorry, I have to go, emergency!" Mom hung up.
So I thought of another poem on the way home:
The same water that gives plants verdant life
Seeps into my bones and corrodes them gritty brown.
A soft red-gray squirrel shrieks at me from a tangle of power lines
I am more like them than I am like him.
I am a daughter of this generation of cold metal, of stark plastic,
of the deadly asphalt on the road, spelling doom to so many tiny lives.
Nature abhors me, for understandable reasons.
And yet
Signposts, telephone lines, and parking meters lean to my left as I walk to work,
but to my right as I walk home,
and on some days, this ordinary magic is enough
to make me happy.
"Mom?"
"Hello, 004! How are things?" He knows each of us by name. He is busy, but never so busy he cannot talk to me.
That is something I like about Mom.
"I have been all right, except . . ." I complained to him about Dr. Wombat's scheme.
"You should try that out more before you quit," Mom said. He is always suggesting for me to try new things.
That is something I cannot stand about Mom.
"What? No! I am not good - I am not interested in poetry!"
"Sweetheart, all of your sisters have hobbies to keep themselves well-rounded. 001 has chess, 002 volunteers at the daycare, 003 has jiu-jitsu, and 005, well, she does some of everything. I've been worried for some time now that you're programmed to be too melancholy, but that'd be a strength in poetry!"
"Let us talk about you instead, Mom. How have you been?" Talking about other people is a) polite, b) makes them like you more, and c) is a great way to change the subject.
"I've been fine; don't change the subject. Either you do something creative with your free time, or I'm going to find you a special someone to cheer you up. 005 has a boyfriend and, as I'm sure she's told you, she seems ecstatically happy about life."
"005 is ecstatically happy no matter what."
Something crashed on the other side of the line, and an alarm went off. "Sorry, I have to go, emergency!" Mom hung up.
So I thought of another poem on the way home:
The same water that gives plants verdant life
Seeps into my bones and corrodes them gritty brown.
A soft red-gray squirrel shrieks at me from a tangle of power lines
I am more like them than I am like him.
I am a daughter of this generation of cold metal, of stark plastic,
of the deadly asphalt on the road, spelling doom to so many tiny lives.
Nature abhors me, for understandable reasons.
And yet
Signposts, telephone lines, and parking meters lean to my left as I walk to work,
but to my right as I walk home,
and on some days, this ordinary magic is enough
to make me happy.
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