After Breakfast

After Breakfast October 28, 2013

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It’s no surprise that we lose sight of the things closest to us—most of all loved ones. Not that we stop loving them in the day to day, but we lose the larger context of their depth and beauty that comes from first meeting. But luckily, the tides of experience throw us about, so that we chance to re-see those we love freshly. This poem records such a moment between me and my wife Susan.

After Breakfast

Like all things that live together,

we bump into each other but some-

times, when going to the store or wait-

ing at the bank, I’m far enough away

to see you completely. Like now. I’m

in New York and you’re in Michigan,

and the way this bird swoops from an

alcove out into the light, the way no

one notices but a small child who

stops and points—it all reminds me

of the day we met. Something flew

out of you and I was stunned that

something in me flew out to meet

it. Even when we sleep, the things

we draw out of each other

circle under the moon.

A Question to Walk With: Try, if you can, to see someone you love freshly. Then open a conversation with your loved one about this rhythm of closeness and larger context, and tell them how you see them.

 


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