A Reminder

 

A Reminder

Occasionally my eye sees the clock.

I can’t believe how swiftly the hands press on.

I want to hold them back, not for the years,

At least that’s not my wish at present,

Just for today.

Condescendingly I put away my work, 

And turn to pressing tasks which demand my attention.

I rush from one to the other, carefully doing only that required.

A horn sounds from the yellow vehicle in the drive.

Inevitable, the posture of the dark lines

On that familiar smiling face on the wall affirm.

Grinning above the dining table, he cannot hide

That he’s a kin to him who rushes through the morning,

Glaring from his prime vantage point resting on the piano. 

Appointments and errands, the necessary,

Mingled with the stop at the donut shop,

A highly enjoyable outing for a little girl,

But not pursued as such by mother because of time,

The reminder being voiced by my boarder’s cousin,

Smiling at me there on my very own wrist,

Really only trying to help,

But in the process bringing me pain, discomfort, remorse. 

And then I saw them!

I felt my heart jump!

No questioning, an uplift.

Who planted the bulbs that Benjamin saw?

His look and thought recorded have sustained me

Before I myself saw the hyacinths.

I see this gardener sitting on the porch,

As if to say, “I’m at rest.”

I remember to give my soul a chance.

That gardener – wife, mother, grandpa, who? –

Over two centuries gone

Blesses me as well.

An hour before, between the appointments,

I had noticed the green hills, and thought:

“What a shame I don’t refresh myself

By observing them when I’m not driving.”

There is a green hill from the view of my sink,

But I don’t look beyond the front lawn –

“I must tell the children

To rake up the litter strewn by those puppies!”

by Judith Anne Beckstrand

2 March 1984