The First Day of Spring: A Love Story
The First Day of Spring: A Love Story
My mother died eight years ago. It was the first day of Spring, a fact I still find hard to reconcile. It was morning, a sunny, balmy Northern California day. She had been in a coma and there was no recovering. My sister and I told her we loved her. I leaned in and said softly, “We did good Mom.” I meant that. We’d had a rough road, but in the end, we felt each other’s love. And that was its own kind of miracle. My sister and I held her, and then she was gone.
"Was it worth it?” I asked her once, of the hundreds of thousands of cigarettes she smoked in her lifetime. “Yes,” she rasped. I was actually relieved that she thought the price she paid for the indignity of cancer and ending her life a decade prematurely was worth it.
My mother was a woman of many aesthetic opinions. We didn’t always agree, but damn, I admired her style! She used to tell me to start wearing eyeliner and stop wearing “that garish” orange lipstick. “You wore orange lipstick,” I reminded her. “That was 1968,” she replied.
I miss her. However difficult our relationship was, I would do anything to sit with her again in some New York diner, drinking coffee, talking about not very much. She’s gone, but I still talk to her. In the morning — as I stand in front of my bathroom mirror, applying the eyeliner she lobbied so hard for — I speak with her: “You were onto something with this eyeliner thing.” I feel her presence. I could swear she’s smiling. And she does her best not to say, “I told you so.”
I wish I could speak with her about “the everyday” ordinary things Marie Howe writes about in her beautiful poem, “What the Living Do.” What I’m cooking for dinner, how much I love teaching. I apply my eyeliner, thinking of the ordinary things I’d share, and then, sometimes, “I’m gripped by a cherishing so deep” for this life, and for all the people I love.
My mom and I had some bumps, but here we are. One living, the other not, but still loving each other. We did good.
****
What the Living Do
by Marie Howe
Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up
waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through
the open living-room windows because the heat’s on too high in here and I can’t turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,
I’ve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,
I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.
What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss—we want more and more and then more of it.
But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep
for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless:
I am living. I remember you.
"Was it worth it?” I asked her once, of the hundreds of thousands of cigarettes she smoked in her lifetime. “Yes,” she rasped. I was actually relieved that she thought the price she paid for the indignity of cancer and ending her life a decade prematurely was worth it.
My mother was a woman of many aesthetic opinions. We didn’t always agree, but damn, I admired her style! She used to tell me to start wearing eyeliner and stop wearing “that garish” orange lipstick. “You wore orange lipstick,” I reminded her. “That was 1968,” she replied.
I miss her. However difficult our relationship was, I would do anything to sit with her again in some New York diner, drinking coffee, talking about not very much. She’s gone, but I still talk to her. In the morning — as I stand in front of my bathroom mirror, applying eyeliner that she lobbied so hard for — I speak with her: “You were onto something with this eyeliner thing.” I feel her presence. I could swear she’s smiling. And she does her best not to say, “I told you so.”
I wish I could speak with her about “the everyday” ordinary things Marie Howe writes about in her beautiful poem, “What the Living Do.” What I’m cooking for dinner, how much I love teaching. I apply my eyeliner, thinking of the ordinary things I’d share, and then, sometimes, “I’m gripped by a cherishing so deep” for this life, and for all the people I love. My mom and I had some bumps, but here we are. One living, the other not, but still loving each other. We did good.
****
If you’d like to do a writing practice with this poem, you can do it solo or with a trusted friend.
What you’ll need:
Ten minutes of quiet
A pen
Some paper or a journal. (I recommend pen and paper instead of your computer. It is a more visceral experience.)
1. Set your timer to ten minutes or have a clock handy.
2. Read the poem below out loud.
3. Choose one of the jump off lines from the poem:
- This is what the living do
- This is it
- I remember you
Or any other line from the poem that resonates. Or you can use an alternate line: What if I were to tell you …
4. Read the poem aloud one more time —then…
5. Begin writing. Pen doesn’t leave the page. Keep your belly soft. Say yes to what arises. If you’re stuck use the line, “Here’s what I want to say”… and keep writing. When the time is done, put the pen down. Take a few deep breaths, then…
6. Read your piece aloud to yourself. Reading aloud helps your words land in your body. (Or read to a trusted friend. If reading in pairs, please do not comment on your friend’s writing. Simply acknowledge non-verbally, like nodding your head or prayer, hands. This is part of creating a safe space.)
7. Take a few breaths. Your practice is now complete.
What the Living Do
Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up
waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through
the open living-room windows because the heat’s on too high in here and I can’t turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,
I’ve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,
I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.
What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss—we want more and more and then more of it.
But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep
for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless:
I am living. I remember you.
