The People I Loved

The people I loved wanted ordinary things: clean sheets and supper, a movie date, a bakery cake, a white pleated skirt and shoes that didn’t hurt. They wanted respect and a day of rest, a dixie cup of ice cream and a ride in the car. They wanted a chance.

I feel such tenderness when I contemplate the touching little wants that went unmet––not greedy or grand, just garden-variety wishes and commendable aspirations that should have been attainable.

And I am filled with awe that deprivation and terrible disappointment and the battering of circumstance did not make those people I loved turn mean.

It’s disconcerting to be the one who can look back from a comfortable perch and remember how it was for those I loved. The ease of my life today can lead to guilt and sadness, but that’s useless and self-indulgent, so I’m trying not to go there. I’m just trying to proceed with decency, humility, and attentiveness.

Attentiveness. Despite all the distractions, I am studying the port from which I sail. There is some message to be read here, a crucial orientation for the journeys to come, a steadying kind of knowing.

One day I walked outside and felt the wind on my face, and the entire essence of being alive was distilled into that sensation, and nothing else was relevant. All the dashed hopes and sad fates faded, and I was just part of the sky.

Life continues in its motley, rambunctious fashion, and there’s a cast of characters here, and a setting that dazzles, and each day I humbly wander. I stick a striped feather in my straw hat, and step carefully to avoid a snake squashed on the ground, and I watch a salamander swimming underwater in a sunlit pool, oblivious to my watching. Neighbors, masked and unmasked, wave and pause to chat, and an old black dog moseys along, and the chickens next door make crazy chicken sounds, and white caps splinter the sea.

I want to start a summer school for the children on the lawn of the old ranch house. We’ll have stories and song-writing, and art projects and treasure hunts, and maybe even a play on the front porch.

But a little girl named Milly has a very important question: Can I bring my pony?

It’s not an extravagance, from her frame of reference––it’s a simple want, and she’ll always remember.

The answer, of course, is yes.