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The Monday Morning Memo

Why not a meadow?
Why not a little clearing and a stream
to wade in? Why not take our pants off,
a little respite from our partners
who couldn’t see us, who’d never see us
no matter what we did? What we did was wrong,
the way we did it. It was miraculous, 
it took hold long after
we trudged back to our spouses. 
So many years harboring a secret. 
Thank you for telling me 
about growing up in Queens, daddy’s 
milk truck skittering about Northern Boulevard 
looking for your favorite ice cream. 
And the darkness: how shades were drawn,
how your mother would never recover
from your father. How many of us 
have been stymied by those early dramas
until we married them? So many years, 
so many hungry years after. 
Thank you for the apricots in the mail,
thank you more for appearing at my door
with so little time left: no going back
to field our regrets. Old
as we are, you are here and now,
why not a meadow and a clearing?

– Ira Sadoff

Copyright © 2023 by Ira Sadoff. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on December 1, 2023, by the Academy of American Poets. 

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Random Quote:

“Here is the best true story on giving I know, and it was told by Jack Kornfield of the Spirit Rock Meditation Center in Woodacre. An eight-year-old boy had a younger sister who was dying of leukemia, and he was told that without a blood transfusion she would die. His parents explained to him that his blood was probably compatible with hers, and if so, he could be the blood donor. They asked him if they could test his blood. He said sure. So they did and it was a good match. Then they asked if he would give his sister a pint of blood, that it could be her only chance of living. He said he would have to think about it overnight. The next day he went to his parents and said he was willing to donate the blood. So they took him to the hospital where he was put on a gurney beside his six-year-old sister. Both of them were hooked up to IVs. A nurse withdrew a pint of blood from the boy, which was then put in the girl’s IV. The boy lay on his gurney in silence while the blood dripped into his sister, until the doctor came over to see how he was doing. Then the boy opened his eyes and asked, ‘How soon until I start to die?’
“

- Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life

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