Fireworks in Bloom on the Fourth of July
And a belated Father's Day wish.
Hey, it’s me. Happy Fourth of July, and a belated — yes, it was three weeks ago, but you weren’t in any of the same old places — Happy Father’s Day!
The joke was old from the beginning: Oops, sorry. You’re not my father. Back to the store it goes. Not the kids. You’re stuck with them.
And I’d reach for the tie or Weber grill, whatever Dad thing it was. The cards meant more. You saved every one. Maybe you watched me look through them, smiling, sometimes wiping a tear.
This year I got you a lawn mower. It’s from our son and daughter, because they’re the ones who come over and do the work. Without them, I’d be lost in the weeds, in more ways than one.
You were hard to shop for. Christmas was the worst. I’m sorry about the vacuum cleaner. I wandered through Macy’s for hours until I finally decided according to the size of the package. A Cuisinart coffeemaker next to a Shark vacuum cleaner. The prices were the same, and I knew you wanted the coffeemaker but it came in a smaller box. I gave you other gifts that year but a Shark casts a long shadow.
I wrote a poem this morning. Maybe you read it. “The lawn mower died / Like you did: inconveniently, after a long illness.” Inconveniently. I read that, and wanted to do something painful to the hand that wrote those words.
Instead, I drank a cup of French press and planned our picnic. Five burgers, five brats. five cobs of sweet corn —
No. Four. There are four of us now.
I’m reading a book called Why We Die by Nobel laureate Venki Ramakrishnan. Written for a lay audience, it’s not quantum physics but it’s not Wordle either. I find it hard to follow. Reading in bed — bad sleep hygiene, you don’t have to preach — I’ll glance at the clock. At midnight I reach for my phone. What good is a New York Times game subscription if I don’t get a perfect Connections score and reach the Genius level at Spelling Bee? The book goes back on the nightstand.
But I don’t meditate, am careless about wearing sunscreen, and have enough essential oils to soothe my primitive brain for more years than I have left on this planet. I’m compelled to browse new products in the quest-for-immortality aisle.
My cautious understanding is that there are two significant factors in the aging process.
One: we run out of heartbeats. Most mammals get 1.5 billion heartbeats at birth. When they hit that number, they die. Humans, shockingly acquisitive creatures that we are, have increased that number to a potential 2.5 billion, just by — wait for it — extending our average lifespans. Who would have thought that modern dentistry and hunting tigers to extinction would make such a difference?
Two: Our DNA breaks down. Four letters, no punctuation. Just the thought makes me tired. I spend a good part of each day thinking about semicolons and em dashes. It’s invigorating. Not like taking a sauna with you, but I’ve really come around to the Oxford comma. And yet, though no ampersands grace our genome, it’s hard to think of anything more elegant than a double helix.
I haven’t finished the book, so I don’t know what to think. You?
How could I forget? You aced the final exam.
Our son and daughter-in-law bought a house built in 1886. They need new gutters. New everything. They need a structural engineer and the honeymoon they didn’t get because of Covid. I want to help them out. They say I can buy them a Japanese maple.
I’d hire a landscape architect if they let me. They should have a patio like the one you built for us. Two Adirondack chairs and a firepit. On their front porch, two wicker chairs and a wrought-iron table.
We have alliums all over the yard this year. With their glorious single flowers exploding like fireworks in white, purple and pink, you’d never know they’re onions.
I will give them onions.
You died. Lightbulbs and batteries followed.
Faucets leaked, fuses blew. Outlets struggled
to make sense of the wiring only you could untangle.
Would the old mower start? It did, once. We
lucked out: last summer was dry. We got by, we borrowed
the neighbor’s Toro. This year the grass grows
a foot a week. Between thunderstorms
I bought a Ryobi. Picked it up at Home Depot.
So light, I lifted it myself into the car.
But the manual was heavy: amputations,
electrocutions, warnings in five languages —
lightning bolts on every page. I closed the box,
would have sealed it had you left the packing tape
anywhere I could find it. Our daughter arrived.
Mom. Fifteen minutes, she was pushing your new toy
across the yard. I grabbed sticks and golfball-sized
windfall apples out of her way; held the cord
like a bridal train so she didn’t trip.
Mom. She looped it over her left shoulder, shield arm,
handled the mower with her right, sword arm.
You’d think she spins that deadly blade for play
or that the battle in her body’s just pretend.
She’s met worse dragons: chemo, radiation,
surgery times seven, tamoxifen. You traded war
stories. I went outside, violated the ground with shovels,
weeping. Remember how cleanly
she beheaded her Barbie dolls?
Now she cuts each allium stem at an angle
with garden shears, sparing our hearts. Fireworks,
a flower: our daughter.
Done with the lawn, she sweeps dead leaves from last fall off the porch and arranges the furniture so it makes sense again. Purple blossoms explode from an old watering can.
Pots stored in the bench; I’ll plant petunias. Begonias. In the big wooden barrel, I dig for the flag. Nestled inside is a family of holidays: Christmas wreaths, Easter baskets, Halloween. Why eleven plastic trick-or-treat pumpkins?
Because there can never be enough sweetness, freely given.
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Much gratitude to
and the poets of the Conscious Writers Collective, who helped me with the poem through close readings and excellent suggestions. Maya is amazing in every way. Now that she’s back from her triumphant book tour abroad, where her readings sold out arenas worthy of Taylor Swift, summer can officially begin.Congratulations to
of the delightful Cambridge Ladies Dining Society, one of my first two pledged subscribers, who just surpassed the 2,000 subscriber mark! I’m right behind her, at 1,996 as of 6:30 a.m. CDT on July 4, 2024. I can think of no better way to celebrate than to sign up to both of our Substacks.If you know someone who might enjoy Writer, interrupted, please share! And I would be thrilled if you hit the heart button to “like” my posts.
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*We face challenges in our lives. I’ve been there. Let me know and I’ll comp you, no questions asked.
A book you should add to your collection - Being Mortal - by Atul Gawande. Probably would have been useful a year or so before your husband died, but it's an important read for the decisions you could make for yourself (and with your kids).
Mary.. thank you for this heart achingly beautiful piece . It's full of life with death sprinkled in. I can see and feel all of it. Every time. ❤️❤️ Thank you ❤️❤️❤️