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28 August 2002 (Wednesday): morning constitutional

I'm incapable of going for a run in this city. Every corner I have to stop and look, explore beyond the storefronts. A half-hour exercise routine becomes a two-hour odyssey. I feel like a subdued version of Amélie, or Jerry Spinelli's Stargirl, or maybe Guthrie in Sharon Creech's Bloomability. A six year old in a twenty-three year old's body.

1. A hardware store. Endless variations on human ingenuity: hundreds and hundreds of screws, bolts, fasteners. "Can I help you with anything?" "Believe it or not, I'm just looking," I say. "Look all you want," the man nods. "There's a lot to see."
   
   
2. Steam and stainless steel in a restaurant kitchen, men moving with rhythmic precision in white uniforms, knives flashing. On a little side table, a giant lobster made out of egg bread. The chefs at the counter glance up at me through the window. I grin and mouth hello.
   
   
3. A boy sits on a stoop as two adults struggle nearby with furniture and a too-small car. He has his left cheek smushed against the palm of his hand, his eyes vacant; beside him is a large plastic rack of shoes. I'm reminded suddenly of a passage from The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying: thinking of everyone you meet as a second You, rather than an Other. I wave to the boy. He looks confused.
   
   
4. Two blocks from home, a mortuary. The adult in me protests -- "Don't be ridiculous, you have no business there, just move along" -- as I head across the street and pull open the door, cautiously. In the first chapel, a ninety-two year old man. The coffin is tiny, and there are no mourners in sight. Everywhere there are elaborate chandeliers, floral arrangements, muted oil paintings. "Can I help you?" "I was looking to find out a little more about cremation," I find myself saying. She leads me to an office and hands me a packet of price listings, descriptions of services. You can have yourself scattered along the coast by plane for $45.00. I ask about urns. They make biodegradable ones now, of recycled paper with no new wood fiber, special plastic bags that dissolve in water. "A family member?" she inquires politely at last. "No, just thinking about my own," I say. "Hopefully a long ways off." She nods and mentions the preplanned funeral option. The woman is a miracle of tact. I wonder how often she talks to perfectly happy, healthy people in her line of work.

I'm back on the street, informational packet in hand. The stoplight ahead of me is about to change and I dash for it, feeling full of sunlight and laughter suddenly. Someday I'll be gone from here, I think, as cars zip past me, Doppler effect humming. That's why all this matters.

posted by enjelani @ 11:23 AM PST

Replies: 4 comments

thank you, that was beautiful. sometimes, it's so strange to hear your thoughts in someone else's head.

posted by jenny @ 28 08 2002 05:04 PM PST

wow.

i wish i had time to write more than that this morning, but all i can think is just... wow.

thanks for writing that.

posted by Lynn @ 29 08 2002 07:13 AM PST

vivid =)

Delightful to read. Thanks so much :)

posted by m. mellow @ 29 08 2002 08:35 AM PST

How did one so young become so wise? Beautiful...

posted by Believer @ 03 09 2002 02:06 PM PST