The Isolation Journals - #109

 

Prompt 109. 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.


Your prompt for this week:

This is what the living do…

Use this line from Marie Howe’s poem as inspiration—perhaps as the opening sentence of your journal entry, or as a poetic refrain. Reflect on the mundane; revel in the glorious everyday details of living.

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I am a philistine.  Not usually one for poetry.  I respect it, but I don't always appreciate it.  It's a personal failing.  But I loved this poem.  It's a reminder that all those little moments, even the frustrating ones, the boring ones, only happen because you're alive.  I mean maybe they happen when you're dead.  I haven't been dead before, so that's a mystery, but rationally, let's just assume they don't.  This poem makes me think of all the deeply human, James Joyce-ian moments we all experience but seldom deem worthy of mention.  The moments that are too common or too private.

This is what the living do...

Driving exactly 8 or 9 miles per hour above the speed limit, picking your nose

Tempting fate on multiple levels

Stripping down in the morning, stepping on the scale

Sitting down on the toilet, phone in hand

Feeling strangely productive as you empty your bowels and check your email

Feeling strong and proud, yet slightly appalled

As you step back on the scale and do the math

Does anyone else do that?

This is what the living do...

Daydreaming about what you'll make for lunch

Before you've finished breakfast

Eating that grape that fell on the floor

Because no one saw you

Licking the rim of the hotsauce bottle

Double dipping your spoon in the peanut butter jar

This is what the living do...

Walking the dog after dinner in the steam of a Southern evening

Sweaty enough to warrant a shower

Skipping the shower and getting in bed later, feeling just a little sticky

Telling yourself you'll wash the sheets...this weekend, maybe

Laughing until you cry when your kitten falls in the toilet 

While you're scooping her litter box

Not even caring that she took off running

With poop-water paws

The look on her face when she realized she'd made a terrible mistake

Oh my god

Living is messy

It's rarely the tidy lists, the major accomplishments, the milestones

Living is breathing and walking and folding laundry

It's paying bills and waiting in lines and eating leftovers at the sink

It's full of hunger and germs and stink

This is what the living do...