The cat laid on my keyboard…

I was asked to say a few words before we eat and when I started thinking about what to say, I realized that there are so many different hands that go into creating a meal like this.

First there are the hands of people like my dad. They plant and harvest the grains, raise the livestock for meat, and pick the fruits off the trees and bushes.

And then there are the hands of the unknowable. The rain that comes at just the right time, the bees that know the exact route for pollination, the help that comes when least expected.

These hands go by many names: god, nature, fate.

And of course we can’t forget the hands of the cooks and everyone who brought something to share. Within your hands the food that’s been gathered becomes something more, something beautiful, and full of flavor.

And then there are the rest of us. Our hands are filled with gratitude. Gratitude for the lovely day, the good conversation, the smiling faces.

And along with the gratitude for what I know will be a delicious meal, I would like to ask each of you for the next few moments to hold in your hands and heart someone or something you are truly grateful for.

I hope you don’t mind if I share what I’m grateful for out loud with you.

I knew as a child and even now as an adult that my table would and will always have food on it and that is because of my parents. My funny and curious Mom. And my resilient and reliable Dad. I would like to thank you both for always providing for us.

I’d also like to say, on behalf of my siblings and parents that we are so honored and grateful to have all of you in our lives. And thank you all for coming to help us celebrate my dad’s ninetieth birthday. Happy Birthday Dad and many, many more.

We carefully pull sadness

a part

piece by piece

seven levels of grief

five signs of depression

ten breaths for anger

shine a light through each cell

each minute minutae

Why?

when all that’s wanted is a good laugh.

We are

on a journey,

a long way to a small planet. 

It’s only your guess

and my ghosts

standing behind a couch

of green brocade,

whose reflections frame the mirror. 

With golden arrows

each clock strikes

midnight      separately. 

The dance of two large birds,

a turnstile of movement.

The phantom cat

balanced on the sill

has been provided

to soothe your

tired hand. 

This is a sad story–probably one you don’t want to read–of a little girl, maybe five or six, maybe a year less. She is walking with her family, a long road. One that is straight and wide that could be driven with your eyes closed and many times, in the sleepy part of night, has been.

The little girl with the reddish tint to her curly hair holds her mother’s hand. Holds her sister’s hand, at least metaphorically speaking, because walking and hand holding is very restrictive in the real sense, but in the metaphorical sense, it is easy and makes walking for a little girl a little easier and some would say a lot. All for one and one for all.

This day is right. The sky is blue. The sun warm. The road flat. It is happy and laughter. A cool drink on a hot afternoon, until the shoes. It is the shoes. She chose the wrong ones. Not strong enough on the girl’s feet. The ones that were fun, not right. The mother might have noticed, said something in her motherly way, then let it go, not thinking that this freedom is not the one to give. Little feet need good shoes to walk.

So the skin on the little girl’s heel begins to burn and the bottom of her feet begin to ache and tiredness rises into her legs. And the sunshine in her eyes begins to glare and the laughter tamps into her throat and her tongue becomes big and leathery, like she’d just licked the dry back of a cow. An urge she’d had many times but doesn’t admit. And the tar lifts into waves of heat. And she is sinking and melting while the metaphorical hands are elsewhere enjoying the walk and not noticing that one of their number is struggling up a metaphorical hill.

But miraculously the little girl in her weakness finds the voice. The one that she’s heard her father use. The one that means business, and truth, and the right way to go. The one that is not metaphorical but hers, and she uses it, probably more than she’d ever used it before. Word for word. Step by step. It feels healthy like greenness on the tongue.

“No more,” she says. “No more.”

And the mother hears. She is trained to hear this voice.

“I can’t go on,” the little girl cries. “Please stop. All for one and one for all.”

But the mother is happy walking and the sister is happy laughing, and it is only the little girl, miserable and sullen. What to do? What to do?

This story is sad, I know, a little girl’s problems. But is it worth the journey? I believe, yes.

The mother, the one in charge of little girls at this age, makes her choice. A separation must happen and hands are split, literally and metaphorically.

Was this when it happened? Was this when it set in? Was this the first point where the little girl realizes the ultimate truth that we are, in the end, utterly alone?

She’s a little young you might say to know this sad truth. And yes, I agree, she is a little young. But even young, she has learned a lesson. Not the lesson you might hope for her, but a lesson nonetheless. You might have surmised it by now, but I will speak it for those who haven’t.

The girl with her five to six year-old wisdom, or maybe a year less, surmises that to use the voice, the one proclaiming her truth, leads to sitting alone in a store waiting until your mother and sister, the only people you know on this walk, trust and care for, decide to link hands again and take you with them.