Wisdom comes with age.
Some fool probably said that
while
looking at a glass
half full.
But whoever invented the idea never knew a few
people
I remember from my youth.
I remember one old man who lost a leg in battle
whether in the Pacific Theater
or Europe
it doesn't much matter, because either place would
never have made
it easier for him to smile any given day.
Some young customers complained
about
sniffles and sore throat. I watch
the old warrior glare
across the diner toward their table. Their food
was ready. He picks up the plates
and walks. Food slides
to each slant of a wooden pace.
He stops in front of them. They gaze momentarily
and then look confused at each other. "I lost
a leg in the war and half my throat
to cancer." His voice twisted and coiled
in pain. The heavy plates
made a dull thud as they hit the table top.
There was silence, both uncomfortable and
tense. He looked
at each of them for a moment
before
he limped back to his perch. "But I
never get a cold."
He turned and retreated behind the counter.
Locals smiled. The young strangers squirmed
uncomfortably in their seats
and talked
about the weather and ski trips and cars
while
they ate their meal. The seemed in a rush to get somewhere.
Not many were there that night
but my friends and I sat
at the far front end of the counter
because
we were still young enough to enjoy the spin
of diner stools.
A cousin cooked at the grill
and I knew
something would happen that night. Tension was like
broken chards of glass
and conversation
was uneasy. People stared, mostly in silence.
I watched the old man saunter toward the open grill. He held
out his right arm. I thought
it was for balance
but then
he slapped my cousin
across her backside with the flat of his hand. The sound made a clap.
"Move your lazy ass," he snapped the words and his lip curled in rage.
Pain leaves multiple scars
some temporary
that fade
with time. Others are wounds
deep and open
and unlike a good wine
time
only makes them fester.
Silence is heavy and tedious, when you wait for the inevitable.
Customers watched helplessly not believing what they saw
that night
in a simple dive
that served mostly burgers and fries.
I watched my cousin. Her neck reddened and her ears colored
in dark tones
like shades of a sunset in late summer.
Her back was to everyone. Shoulders trembled
as if affected by a January storm. She wiped her face with her hand
trying
not to show anyone
tiny drops
of shame. Why do victims carry the burden?
I was sixteen. I wanted to do something
anything
but fear is like
moments of early darkness when
nesting birds
make
nature's death rattle
wobbling and hopping and fluttering about
among branches for concealment and comfort
before night.
I wanted to do something to a pathetic old man
who slapped
a woman making less than minimum wage.
"Shouldn't we say something."
I forced a whisper from my throat. Three friends
smiled. "Why
don't you do something." They scraped
hash browns and gravy
onto their forks
and ate the meal
prepared by the hands
of my cousin.
She turned and looked at me and forced a smile,
its image awakened me.
The omen was to make me know she embraced
good intentions
but a design undone
never cures a malignancy.
I still see that smile sometimes. It haunts me like a scream in the still of night.
Morning is when regret hurts the most--the fear of being marked
by time and not spiced
with the hand of Picasso
and his magic brush.
The status quo admires photographs that show faces forgotten in time
where at least
a person's glance allows the glimpse of hope
to sleep well at night.
It's why people always count the toes on any newborn's feet.
People like ice cream with their pie.
But personally I like Picasso and his strange point of view
although sunflowers fascinate me too
and when it comes to life
there's nothing like a starry night
to put life
in perspective
because regardless how many ears the artist had
there is nothing like an epiphany in summer's darkness.
Moonlight never knows the difference. It makes no sound
but gentility adds character to the vision.
Normal is relative
and sanity is a fleeting moment
unscathed in time. It's like
a fresh leaf on a living tree
vibrating
fluttering
waving in the bask of summer breezes
enjoying life ala mode.
It's easy to seize the day
neither detached
nor wallowed down
in tragedy.
Sadness can be like clouds that ride mountain ridges in late November.
I talked with my dad about the night
in the diner
about my cowardice
about my fear
about my letting things happen.
To this day I wonder what he thought of me
worrying about
how someone mistreated and scorned
a woman like
discarded potato peels
because
a wise man once told me
a hard potato has no conscience. I never assumed
that a potato could see the light
except when shoots grow underground
from sockets to seek illumination
and life in the sun.
And I guess wisdom really does come with age
because
I recognize those black harpies circling in their mid-air dance
in blue skies
and now
I don't wait for the scent of carrion
to act
to make a difference
to stop the pain
to avoid seeing anyone smile politely after tragedy.
But even a brave act is subtle self-indulgence. Action helps me escape the guilt.
Fools find solace in nostalgia. They wrap themselves
warmly, contentedly
in memories
somehow distorted
and embellished
by their own point of view.
Those same fools shout the words carpe diem. They
relish a confident image
they imagine of themselves. Is there a smile in the face of a pond?
Being a passive observer has its price. Life without
passion is one bound my innocence
Karma is sometimes a cruel mistress
who cripples a lover with a smile
before leaving on a dark night. Can you hear her laughter?
Wisdom is a faint whisper in a wise man's ear
the message plain
simple but sometimes
hedonistic. Its message
resonates--I reserve the right to deny
service to anyone.
Life is like living with a contemptuous lover: "You never know
what you're gonna get." Chocolate is a suitable substitute.
There are advantages to being born
with a face
only a mother could love: you realize
that living and breathing is like
an airline schedule: an existence without guarantees
where you lose
checked luggage after paying extra for stowing it. Sometimes
your clothes just look better on someone else.
And besides
for those homely fortunates, excluded from style and pomp
of any fashion runway
narcissism will never be
viable
because
their strut will never attract attention
even if they trip and fall. But sometimes a sneer
or even a frown
looks more forbidding on an ugly face. Any fashion model could learn
from this.
Happiness is an amulet. It wards off those who seek to control fate.
Courageous choices let men sleep at night, but when you're young
visions of pretty faces and lace bring smiles too.
I choose to see beauty, even if it refuses to stare back at me.
Beauty is relative and doing the right thing
at a given moment
when
it's easier to remain
silent
is a photograph worth framing.
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