I came across a reference to Marie Howe’s poem “What the Living Do,” in Suleika Jaouad’s, The Book of Alchemy: A creative Practice for in Inspired Life. Jaouad quotes the last few lines, and I was so taken with them I had to search out the full poem.
The lines she quotes are
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.
Clearly the poem speaks to heart rending loss, breath suspending loss. And that’s not where I am these days. The poem is set in the dry, icy chill of winter. And that’s not where I am these days (it’s summer and the humidity has been hovering around 80%, the kind of humidity that makes breathing a conscious, effort filled activity). And yet, there is something about those lines, those words—a cherishing so deep—of simple things that constitute the dailiness of living, the simple things we rarely notice, but that make life—not just worth living, but that literally make our life. And the aha line—I’m Speechless: I am living. How mundane. How taken for granted. How perfectly breathtakingly, awe inspiring. I am living. And so are you. And I am grateful.
What the Living Do
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.
From What the Living Do, copyright © 1998 by Marie Howe.
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