I am a lazy man. Whether it be about working for a living or laboring around the house, nothing pleases me more than sitting in my chair, wondering if and when anything will get accomplished.
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Looking out over the crowd, my heart sank a little. I had advertised my poetry reading about as vigorously as I could, given that I don’t have an E-mail list anymore (new computer). But the crowd was small. Indeed, it filled the little space in the basement bar where we were reading. While I have few expectations for such events, better attendance would have been a boon to spirit.
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The anesthetist parted the curtain and came into the enclosure.
“It’s time for us to get you to the operating room and into surgery,” she said. “Are you all right?”
A couple of nurses in masks stood next to him. Everything seemed to be in motion.
“Do you think you could leave me here for another five minutes?” I said. “Actually, you could leave me here for the rest of my life.”
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It’s been a frustrating season. In many ways, what’s happened to me in the last few weeks have brought me a new sense of myself. Like everyone, I walk around as if I know who I am and know what I want to do. But inwardly, I’m lost, poking around in the dark, and wondering if I’m on the right track.
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What was happening in the Black community was a world apart from our white neighborhood. School went on as planned. We went to church on Sunday mornings, a ritual enacted every week the same way. My dad went to work every day before we woke and made ready for school. He came home every night to the excitement of the children. We mobbed him as he came in the door and he always said something to the tune of, “All right. All right. Let me get in the house.”
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