Friday, August 27, 2010
On an afternoon, after walking far in the hot sun and getting dusty, I’d buy a breeze if I could, but no matter the number of my pennies, I can’t.That’s the first thing that comes to mind, not because it’s been that warm out but the sun did give us a nice warming up for a couple of days, at last shining and dazzling and reminding me of the kind of heat that makes a breeze the most valuable thing.
If I could I’d buy no-hunger for anybody beyond the hunger one can feel if dinner’s especially late. This is, in fact, something that could be bought but the collective “we” hasn’t put our collective muscle and and our collective pennies in the right place. I’d also like to purchase not feeling so sad about it. No, I wouldn’t. Beyond doubt and doubt’s shadow though, if I could, I’d buy a collective transformation of intelligence in this regard.
How about even a glass of cool, clean water for everyone who’s thirsty?
For myself, when especially tired, on busy days or restless days, I’d like to purchase one nap on a comfortable bed and one cup of black tea afterward. How about a short nap? Some days, even when I’ve got the time and the tea for later, I can’t turn my mind and body off long enough to rest.
There are some people whose love I’d really like and I’ve tried almost everything to get it from standing on my head while juggling strawberries with my bare feet to sending little notes and big books in the mail to phone calls on their birthdays but that love ain’t ever going to be mine, I can tell, because those people don’t love me. They think I’m somebody else. And I wouldn’t love the person they think I am either. The Beetles said it best.
If I could buy a tighter chin, I’d do it. But not the kind you get with knives and needles. I wish I could buy the kind of chin that would have been mine had I learned to hold my head high sooner.
Patience, how much does that cost?
The return of both my pop’s hearing and the hearing that once dad had. Though better than nothing, hearing aids just don’t do it. My father doesn’t particularly appreciate the sound of wind through trees or birds taking to the sky. He never has. Nature’s not his thing. But Bach is.
I’d buy my mother’s return, but I think I’ve already said that—once or 100 times.
How much would it cost to have lunch with Maude again? Every day she blows me a kiss from afar but her photograph displayed on my bookshelf’s not the same as the afternoon we enjoyed on her 86th birthday and shared a single glass of chardonnay, even though she said, nearly bubbling over, not meaning it at all, “Really, I shouldn’t have.”
My father bends down (still), never too proud (or, apparently, old) to pick up a penny. He’s collected a lot of money that way and put it to many good uses (the down payment on a home, even). Except when he buys books, I wonder if any of the purchased things are what the bending and the retrieving are truly about?
If I could purchase a second last sip of coffee when I bring only emptiness to my lips, I would.
I’d like to buy you a walk in the woods alone, in my woods, Jacks Peak’s woods. But I can’t. You gotta get there yourself. When you do, I’ll be waiting to hear all about it. And that won’t cost either of us a penny, let alone a dime.
Posted by Patrice Vecchione at 6:27 AM